THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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THE  TEMPLE  EDITION 

OF  THE 

COMÉDIE  HUMAINE 

Edited  by 

GEORGE  SAINTSBURY 


All  rights  reset  ved 


/ 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE        #   vii 

A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY — 

I.   EARLY  MISTAKES        .          .          .          .          *  I 

II.   A  HIDDEN  GRIEF         ......  78 

III.  AT  THIRTY  YEARS      .                     ...  10 1 

IV.  THE  FINGER  OF  GOD  ......  126 

V.  TWO  MEETINGS           ...           .                      .  140 

VI,  THE  OLD  AGE  OF  A  GUILTY  MOTHER       .           .          .  196 

A  FORSAKEN  LADY         .         .         .         .  .213 

LA  GRENADIÈRE   263 

THE  MESSAGE         .        ,   i9i 

GOBSECK   307 

CO  ' 

az 


PREFACE 


There  are  not  a  few  volumes  of  Balzac  of  which  it  is 
possible  to  speak  with  more  editorial  enthusiasm,  perhaps 
indeed  there  is  hardly  any  of  which  it  is  possîble  to 
speak  with  less,  than  of  the  volume  which  opens  with  La 
Femme  de  Trente  Ans.  All  its  contents,  or  all  with  the 
exception  of  Gobseck^  are  tainted  with  a  kind  of  senti- 
mentalism  which,  in  Balzac's  hands  and  to  English 
taste,  very  rarely  escapes  a  smatch  of  the  rancid  ;  few  of 
them  exhibit  him  at  his  best  as  an  artist,  and  one  or  two 
show  him  almost  at  his  worst. 

The  least  good  of  all — though  its  title  and  a  very 
small  part  of  its  contents  have  had  the  honour  to  meet 
with  an  approval  from  Sainte-Beuve,  which  that  critic 
did  not  always  bestow  upon  Balzac's  work — is  the  first 
or  title-story.  As  M.  de  Lovenjoul's  patient  investi- 
gations have  shown,  and  as  the  curiously  wide  date 
1 828-1 844  would  itself  indicate  to  any  one  who  has 
carefully  studied  Balzac's  ways  of  proceeding,  it  is  not 
really  a  single  story  at  all,  but  consists  of  half  a  dozen 
chapters  or  episodes  originally  published  at  different 
times  and  in  different  places,  and  stuck  together  with  so 
much  less  than  even  the  author's  usual  attention  to  strict 
construction,  that  the  general  title  is  totally  inapplicable 
to  the  greater  part  of  the  book,  and  that  the  chronology 


Preface 


of  that  part  to  which  it  does  apply  fits  in  very  badly  with 
the  rest.  This,  however,  is  the  least  of  the  faults  of  the 
piece.  It  is  more — though  still  not  most — serious  that 
Balzac  never  seems  to  have  made  up  anything  like  a  clear 
or  consistent  idea  of  Julie  d'Aiglemont  in  his  mind.  First 
she  is  a  selfish  and  thoughtless  child  $  then  an  angelic 
and  persecuted  but  faithful  wife  ;  then  a  somewhat  facile 
victim  to  a  very  commonplace  seducer,  after  resisting 
an  exceptional  one.  So,  again,  she  is  first  a  devoted 
mother,  then  an  almost  unnatural  parent,  and  then  again 
devoted,  being  punished  par  où  elle  a  pêche  once  more. 
Even  this,  however,  might  have  been  atoned  for  by 
truth,  or  grace,  or  power  of  handling.  I  cannot  find 
much  of  any  of  these  things  here.  Not  to  mention  the 
unsavouriness  of  part  of  Julie's  trials,  they  are  not  such 
as,  in  me  at  least,  excite  any  sympathy  \  and  Balzac  has 
drenched  her  with  the  sickly  sentiment  above  noticed  to 
an  almost  nauseous  extent.  Although  he  would  have 
us  take  the  Marquis  as  a  brutal  husband,  he  does  not  in 
effect  represent  him  as  such,  but  merely  as  a  not  very 
refined  and  rather  clumsy  c  good  fellow,'  who  for  his  sins 
is  cursed  with  a  mijaurée  of  a  wife.  The  Julie-Arthur  love- 
passages  are  in  the  very  worst  style  of c  sensibility  '  ;  and 
though  I  fully  acknowledge  the  heroism  of  my  country- 
man Lord  Arthur  in  allowing  his  fingers  to  be  crushed 
and  making  no  sign — although  I  question  very  much 
whether  I  could  have  done  the  same — I  fear  this  romantic 
act  does  not  suffice  to  give  verisimilitude  to  a  figure 
which  is  for  the  most  part  mere  pasteboard,  with  saw- 
dust inside  and  tinsel  out.  Many  of  the  incidents,  such 
as  the  pushing  of  the  child  into  the  water,  and,  still  more, 
the  scene  on  shipboard  where  the  princely  Corsair  takes 


Preface 


ix 


millions  out  of  a  piano  and  gives  them  away,  have  the 
crude  and  childish  absurdity  of  the  Œuvres  de  Jeunesse, 
which  they  very  much  resemble,  and  with  which,  from 
the  earliest  date  given,  they  may  very  probably  have  been 
contemporary.  Those  who  are  fortunate  enough  to 
find  Julie,  in  her  early  afternoon  of  femme  Incomprise, 
attractive,  may  put  up  with  these  defects.  I  own  that  I 
am  not  quite  able  to  find  the  compensation  sufficient. 
The  worse  side  of  the  French  'sensibility  '  school  from 
Rousseau  to  Madame  de  Stael  appears  here  ;  and  Balzac, 
genius  as  he  was,  had  quite  weak  points  enough  of  his 
own  without  borrowing  other  men's  and  women's.  } 

La  Femme  Abandonnée,  with  its  two  successors,  rather 
belongs  to  that  class  ot  Balzac's  stories  to  which  I  have 
elsewhere  given  the  title  of  anecdotes.  1  It  is  better  than 
the  title-story,  or  rather  it  has  fewer  and  less  various 
faults.  The  first  meeting  of  Madame  de  Beauséant  and 
M.  de  Nueil  is  positively  good  ;  and  the  introduction, 
with  its  sketch  of  what  Balzac  knew  or  dreamed  to  be 
society,  has  the  merit  of  most  of  his  overtures.  But  the 
tale  as  a  whole  has  the  drawback  of  almost  all  this  special 
class  of  love-stories,  except  Adolphe — from  which  so 
many  of  them  were  imitated,  and  which  Balzac,  I  think, 
generally  had  in  his  mind  when  he  attempted  the  style. 
Benjamin  Constant,  either  by  sheer  literary  skill,  or  as 
the  result  of  transferring  to  his  book  an  intense  personal 
experience,  has  made  the  somewhat  monotonous  and 
unrelieved  as  well  as  illicit  passion  of  his  personages 
intensely  real  and  touching.  Balzac,  here,  has  not.  It 
is  not  Philistinism,  but  common-sense,  which  objects  to 
M.  de  NueiPs  neglect  of  the  most  sensible  of  proverbs 
about  the  old  lovç  and  the  new. 


X 


Preface 


c Sensibility*  pursues  us  still  in  La  Grenadiere^znA  does 
not  set  us  free  in  Le  Message,  a  story  which,  by  the  way, 
was  much  twisted  about  in  its  author's  hands,  and 
underwent  transformations  too  long  to  be  summarised 
here.  It  may  be  brutal  to  feel  little  or  no  sympathy 
with  the  woes  and  willow-wearing  of  the  guilty  and 
beautiful  Madame  Wilesens  (otherwise  Lady  Brandon) 
by  the  water  of  Loire  ;  but  I  confess  that  they  leave  me 
tearless,  and  I  do  not  know  that  the  subsequent  appear- 
ances of  Marie  Gaston  in  Deux  Jeunes  Mariées  and  Le 
Depute  dy Arcis  add  to  the  attraction  of  this  novelette. 
Jules  Sandeau  could  have  made  a  really  touching  thing 
of  what  was,  I  think,  out  of  Balzac's  way.  Le  Message 
was  less  so  ;  there  is  a  point  of  irony  in  it  which  com- 
mends itself  to  him,  and  which  keeps  it  sweet  and  prevents 
it  from  sharing  the  mawkishness  of  the  earlier  stories. 
But  it  is  slight. 

In  Gobseck,  though  not  entirely,  we  shake  off  this  un- 
wonted and  uncongenial  influence,  and  come  to  matters 
in  which  Balzac  was  much  more  at  home.  The  hero 
himself  is  interesting,  the  story  of  Derville  and  Jenny 
escapes  mawkishness,  and  all  the  scenes  in  which  the 
Restauds  and  Maxime  de  Trailles  figure  are  admirably 
done  and  well  worth  reading.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
take  into  consideration  the  important  part  which  the 
Dutch  Jew's  grand-daughter  or  grand-niece  Esther 
afterwards  plays  in  the  Comédie — he  is  good  in  himself, 
and  a  famous  addition  to  Balzac's  gallery  of  misers,  the 
most  interesting,  if  not  the  most  authentic,  ever  ar- 
ranged on  that  curious  subject.  It  is  lucky  that  Gobseck 
comes  last  in  the  book,  for  it  enables  us  to  take  a  charit- 
able leave  of  it. 


Preface 


xi 


It  takes  M.  de  Lovenjoul  nearly  three  of  his  large 
pages  of  small  type  to  give  an  exact  bibliography  of  the 
extraordinary  mosaic  which  bears  the  title  of  La  Femme 
de  "Trente  Ans.  It  must  be  sufficient  here  to  say  that  most 
of  its  parts  appeared  separately  in  different  periodicals 
(notably  the  Revue  de  Paris)  during  the  very  early  thirties; 
that  when  in  1832  most  of  them  appeared  together  in 
the  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Privée  they  were  independent  stories  ; 
and  that  when  the  author  did  put  them  together,  he  at 
first  adopted  the  title  Même  Histoire. 

La  Femme  Abandbnnée  appeared  in  the  Revue  de  Paris 
for  September  1832,  was  a  Scene  de  la  Vie  de  Province  next 
year,  and  was  shifted  to  the  Vie  Privée  when  the  Comédie 
was  first  arranged.  La  Grenadiere  followed  it  in  the  same 
Review  next  month,  and  had  the  same  subsequent  history. 
The  record  of  Le  Message  is  much  more  complicated;  and 
I  must  again  refer  those  who  wish  to  follow  it  exactly  to 
M.  de  Lovenjoul.  It  is  enough  here  to  say  that  it  at 
first  appeared  in  the  mid-February  issue  of  the  Deux 
Mondes  for  1832,  then  complicated  itself  with  La  Grande 
^Bretêche  and  its  companion  tales,  and  then  imitated  the 
stories  which  here  precede  it  by  being  first  a  'provincial,' 
and  then,  as  it  had  already  been,  a  4  private  '  scene.  Gob- 
seck, unlike  all  these,  had  no  newspaper  ushering,  but 
was  a  Scène  de  la  Vie  Privée  from  the  first  use  of  that  title 
in  1830.  Its  own  title,  however,  Les  Dangers  de  P Incon- 
duite and  Papa  Gobseck,  varied  a  little,  and  it  once  made 
an  excursion  to  the  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Parisienne,  but 
returned.  G.  S. 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 


To  Louis  Boulanger ,  Painter 
I 

EARLY  MISTAKES 

It  was  a  Sunday  morning  in  the  beginning  of  April 
1813,  a  morning  which  gave  promise  of  one  of  those  bright 
days  when  Parisians,  for  the  first  time  in  the  year, 
behold  dry  pavements  underfoot  and  a  cloudless  sky 
overhead.  It  was  not  yet  noon  when  a  luxurious  cab- 
riolet, drawn  by  two  spirited  horses,  turned  out  of  the 
Rue  de  Castiglione  into  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  and  drew  up 
behind  a  row  of  carriages  standing  before  the  newly 
opened  barrier  halfway  down  the  Terrasse  des  Feuil- 
lants. The  owner  of  the  carriage  looked  anxious  and 
out  of  health  ;  the  thin  hair  on  his  sallow  temples,  turning 
grey  already,  gave  a  look  of  premature  age  to  his  face. 
He  flung  the  reins  to  a  servant  who  followed  on  horse- 
back, and  alighted  to  take  in  his  arms  a  young  girl  whose 
dainty  beauty  had  already  attracted  the  eyes  of  loungers 
on  the  Terrasse.  The  little  lady,  standing  upon  the 
carriage  step,  graciously  submitted  to  be  taken  by  the 
waist,  putting  an  arm  round  the  neck  of  her  guide,  who 
set  her  down  upon  the  pavement  without  so  much  as 
ruffling  the  trimming  of  her  green  rep  dress.  No  lover 
would  have  been  so  careful.  The  stranger  could  only  be 
the  father  of  the  young  girl,  who  took  his  arm  familiarly 


2 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


without  a  word  of  thanks,  and  hurried  him  into  the 
Garden  of  the  Tuileries. 

The  old  father  noted  the  wondering  stare  which  some 
of  the  young  men  gave  the  couple,  and  the  sad  expression 
left  his  face  for  a  moment.  Although  he  had  long  since 
reached  the  time  of  life  when  a  man  is  fain  to  be  con- 
tent with  such  illusory  delights  as  vanity  bestows,  he 
began  to  smile. 

c  They  think  you  are  my  wife,'  he  said  in  the  young 
lady's  ear,  and  he  held  himself  erect  and  walked  with 
slow  steps,  which  filled  his  daughter  with  despair. 

He  seemed  to  take  up  the  coquette's  part  for  her  ; 
perhaps  of  the  two,  he  was  the  more  gratified  by  the 
curious  glances  directed  at  those  little  feet,  shod  with 
plum-coloured  prunella  ;  at  the  dainty  figure  outlined  by 
a  low-cut  bodice,  filled  in  with  an  embroidered  chemisette, 
which  only  partially  concealed  the  girlish  throat.  Her 
dress  was  lifted  by  her  movements  as  she  walked,  giving 
glimpses  higher  than  the  shoes  of  delicately  moulded 
outlines  beneath  open-work  silk  stockings.  More  than 
one  of  the  idlers  turned  and  passed  the  pair  again,  to 
admire  or  to  catch  a  second  glimpse  of  the  young  face, 
about  which  the  brown  tresses  played  ;  there  was  a  glow 
in  its  white  and  red,  partly  reflected  from  the  rose- 
coloured  satin  lining  of  her  fashionable  bonnet,  partly 
due  to  the  eagerness  and  impatience  which  sparkled  in 
every  feature.  A  mischievous  sweetness  lighted  up  the 
beautiful,  almond-shaped  dark  eyes,  bathed  in  liquid 
brightness,  shaded  by  the  long  lashes  and  curving  arch 
of  eyebrow.  Life  and  youth  displayed  their  treasures  in 
the  petulant  face  and  in  the  gracious  outlines  of  the  bust, 
unspoiled  even  by  the  fashion  of  the  day,  which  brought 
the  girdle  under  the  breast. 

The  young  lady  herself  appeared  to  be  insensible  to 
admiration.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  sort  of  anxiety  on 
the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries,  the  goal,  doubtless,  of  her 
petulant  promenade.    It  wanted  but  fifteen  minutes  cf 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


3 


noon,  yet  even  at  that  early  hour  several  women  in  gala 
dress  were  coming  away  from  the  Tuileries,  not  without 
backward  glances  at  the  gates  and  pouting  looks  of  dis- 
content, as  if  they  regretted  the  lateness  of  the  arrival 
which  had  cheated  them  of  a  longed-for  spectacle. 
Chance  carried  a  few  words  let  fall  by  one  of  these  disap- 
pointed fair  ones  to  the  ears  of  the  charming  stranger, 
and  put  her  in  a  more  than  common  uneasiness.  The 
elderly  man  watched  the  signs  of  impatience  and  appre- 
hension which  flitted  across  his  companion's  pretty  face 
with  interest,  rather  than  amusement,  in  his  eyes, 
observing  her  with  a  close  and  careful  attention,  which 
perhaps  could  only  be  prompted  by  some  after-thought 
in  the  depths  of  a  father's  mind. 

It  was  the  thirteenth  Sunday  of  the  year  1813.  In 
two  days'  time  Napoleon  was  to  set  out  upon  the  disas- 
trous campaign  in  which  he  was  to  lose  first  Bessières, 
and  then  Duroc  ;  he  was  to  win  the  memorable  battles 
of  Lutzen  and  Bautzen,  to  see  himself  treacherously 
deserted  by  Austria,  Saxony,  Bavaria,  and  Bernadotte, 
and  to  dispute  the  dreadful  field  of  Leipsic.  The  mag- 
nificent review  commanded  for  that  day  by  the  Emperor 
was  to  be  the  last  of  so  many  which  had  long  drawn 
forth  the  admiration  of  Paris  and  of  foreign  visitors.  For 
the  last  time  the  Old  Guard  would  execute  their  scientific 
military  manœuvres  with  the  pomp  and  precision  which 
sometimes  amazed  the  Giant  himself.  Napoleon  was 
nearly  ready  for  his  duel  with  Europe.  It  was  a  sad 
sentiment  which  brought  a  brilliant  and  curious  throng 
to  the  Tuileries.  Each  mind  seemed  to  foresee  the 
future,  perhaps  too  in  every  mind  another  thought  was 
dimly  present,  how  that  in  that  future,  when  the  heroic 
age  of  France  should  have  taken  the  half-fabulous  colour 
with  which  it  is  tinged  for  us  to-day,  men's  imaginations 
would  more  than  once  seek  to  retrace  the  picture  of 
the  pageant  which  they  were  assembled  to  behold. 


4 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


c  Do  let  us  go  more  quickly,  father  ;  I  can  hear  the 
drums/  the  young  girl  said,  and  in  a  half-teasing,  half- 
coaxing  manner  she  urged  her  companion  forward. 

*  The  troops  are  marching  into  the  Tuileries,'  said  he. 

c  Or  marching  out  of  it — everybody  is  coming  away/ 
she  answered  in  childish  vexation,  which  drew  a  smile 
from  her  father. 

cThe  review  only  begins  at  half-past  twelve,'  he  said  ; 
he  had  fallen  half  behind  his  impetuous  daughter. 

It  might  have  been  supposed  that  she  meant  to  hasten 
their  progress  by  the  movement  of  her  right  arm,  for  it 
swung  like  an  oar  blade  through  the  water.  In  her 
impatience  she  had  crushed  her  handkerchief  into  a  ball 
in  her  tiny,  well-gloved  fingers.  Now  and  then  the  old 
man  smiled,  but  the  smiles  were  succeeded  by  an  anxious 
look  which  crossed  his  withered  face  and  saddened  it. 
In  his  love  for  the  fair  young  girl  by  his  side,  he  was  as 
fain  to  exalt  the  present  moment  as  to  dread  the  future. 
'She  is  happy  to-day;  will  her  happiness  last?'  he 
seemed  to  ask  himself,  for  the  old  are  somewhat  prone  to 
foresee  their  own  sorrows  in  the  future  of  the  young. 

Father  and  daughter  reached  the  peristyle  under  the 
tower  where  the  tricolour  flag  was  still  waving  ;  but  as 
they  passed  under  the  arch  by  which  people  came  and 
went  between  the  Gardens  of  the  Tuileries  and  the  Place 
du  Carrousel,  the  sentries  on  guard  called  out  sternly — 

c  No  admittance  this  way.' 

By  standing  on  tiptoe  the  young  girl  contrived  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  a  crowd  of  well-dressed  women, 
thronging  cither  side  of  the  old  marble  arcade  along 
which  the  Emperor  was  to  pass. 

'We  were  too  late  in  starting,  father;  you  can  see 
that  quite  well.'  A  little  piteous  pout  revealed  the 
immense  importance  which  she  attached  to  the  sight  of 
this  particular  review. 

'Very  well,  Julie — let  us  go  away.  You  dislike  a 
crush.' 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


5 


c  Do  let  us  stay,  father.  Even  here  I  may  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  Emperor  -r  he  might  die  during  this  cam- 
paign, and  then  I  should  never  have  seen  him.' 

Her  father  shuddered  at  the  selfish  speech.  There 
were  tears  in  the  girl's  voice  ;  he  looked  at  her,  and 
thought  that  he  saw  tears  beneath  her  lowered  eyelids  ; 
tears  caused  not  so  much  by  the  disappointment  as  by 
one  of  the  troubles  of  early  youth,  a  secret  easily  guessed 
by  an  oid  father.  Suddenly  Julie's  face  flushed^  and  she 
uttered  an  exclamation.  Neither  her  father  nor  the  sen- 
tinels understood  the  meaning  of  the  cry  ;  but  an  officer 
within  the  barrier,  who  sprang  across  the  court  towards 
the  staircase,  heard  it,  and  turned  abruptly  at  the  sound. 
He  went  to  the  arcade  by  the  Gardens  of  the  Tuileries, 
and  recognised  the  young  lady  who  had  been  hidden  for 
a  moment  by  the  tall  bearskin  caps  of  the  grenadiers. 
He  set  aside  in  favour  of  the  pair  the  order  which  he  him- 
self had  given.  Then,  taking  no  heed  of  the  mur- 
murings  of  the  fashionable  crowd  seated  under  the  arcade, 
he  gently  drew  the  enraptured  child  towards  him. 

c  I  am  no  longer  surprised  at  her  vexation  and  enthu- 
siasm, if  you  are  in  waiting,'  the  old  man  said  with  a 
half-mocking,  half-serious  glance  at  the  officer. 

c  If  you  want  a  good  position,  M.  le  Duc,'  the  young 
man  answered,  c  we  must  not  spend  any  time  in  talking. 
The  Emperor  does  not  like  to  be  kept  waiting,  and 
the  Grand  Marshal  has  sent  me  to  announce  our 
readiness.' 

As  he  spoke,  he  had  taken  Julie's  arm  with  a  certain 
air  of  old  acquaintance,  and  drew  her  rapidly  in  the 
direction  of  the  Place  du  Carrousel.  Julie  was  as- 
tonished at  the  sight.  An  immense  crowd  was  penned 
up  in  a  narrow  space,  shut  in  between  the  grey  walls  of 
the  palace  and  the  limits  marked  out  by  chains  round  the 
great  sanded  squares  in  the  midst  of  the  courtyard  of  the 
Tuileries.  The  cordon  of  sentries  posted  to  keep  a  clear 
passage  for  the  Emperor  and  his  staff  had  great  difficulty 


6 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


in  keeping  back  the  eager  humming  swarm  of  human 
beings. 

1  Is  it  going  to  be  a  very  fine  sight  ? 9  Julie  asked  (she 
was  radiant  now). 

*  Pray  take  care  ! 9  cried  her  guide,  and  seizing  Julie 
by  the  waist,  he  lifted  her  up  with  as  much  vigour  as 
rapidity  and  set  her  down  beside  a  pillar. 

But  for  his  prompt  action,  his  gazing  kinswoman 
would  have  come  into  collision  with  the  hindquarters 
of  a  white  horse  which  Napoleon's  Mameluke  held  by 
the  bridle  ;  the  animal  in  its  trappings  of  green  velvet 
and  gold  stood  almost  under  the  arcade,  some  ten  paces 
behind  the  rest  of  the  horses  in  readiness  for  the  Em- 
peror's staff. 

The  young  officer  placed  the  father  and  daughter  in 
front  of  the  crowd  in  the  first  space  to  the  right,  and 
recommended  them  by  a  sign  to  the  two  veteran  grena- 
diers on  either  side.  Then  he  went  on  his  way  into 
the  palace  ;  a  look  of  great  joy  and  happiness  had  suc- 
ceeded to  his  horror-struck  expression  when  the  horse 
backed.  Julie  had  given  his  hand  a  mysterious  pressure  ; 
had  she  meant  to  thank  him  for  the  little  service  he  had 
done  her,  or  did  she  tell  him,  '  After  all,  I  shall  really 
see  you  '  ?  She  bent  her  head  quite  graciously  in  response 
to  the  respectful  bow  by  which  the  officer  took  leave  of 
them  before  he  vanished. 

The  old  man  stood  a  little  behind  his  daughter.  He 
looked  grave.  He  seemed  to  have  left  the  two  young 
people  together  for  some  purpose  of  his  own,  and  now 
he  furtively  watched  the  girl,  trying  to  lull  her  into  false 
security  by  appearing  to  give  his  whole  attention  to  the 
magnificent  sight  in  the  Place  du  Carrousel.  When 
Julie's  eyes  turned  to  her  father  with  the  expression  of  a 
schoolboy  before  his  master,  he  answered  her  glance  by  a 
gay,  kindly  smile,  but  his  own  keen  eyes  had  followed 
the  officer  under  the  arcade,  and  nothing  of  all  that 
passed  was  lost  upon  him. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


7 


c  What  a  grand  sight  !  '  said  Julie  in  a  low  voice,  as 
she  pressed  her  father's  hand  ;  and  indeed  the  pomp  and 
picturesqueness  of  the  spectacle  in  the  Place  du  Car- 
rousel drew  the  same  exclamation  from  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  spectators,  all  agape  with  wonder.  An- 
other array  of  sightseers,  as  tightly  packed  as  the  ranks 
behind  the  old  noble  and  his  daughter,  filled  the  narrow 
strip  of  pavement  by  the  railings  which  crossed  the 
Place  du  Carrousel  from  side  to  side  in  a  line  parallel 
with  the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries.  The  dense  living 
mass,  variegated  by  the  colours  of  the  women's  dresses, 
traced  out  a  hold  line  across  the  centre  of  the  Place  du 
Carrousel,  filling  in  the  fourth  side  of  a  vast  parallelo- 
gram, surrounded  on  three  sides  by  the  Palace  of  the 
Tuileries  itself.  Within  the  precincts  thus  railed  off 
stood  the  regiments  of  the  Old  Guard  about  to  be  passed 
in  review,  drawn  up  opposite  the  Palace  in  imposing  blue 
columns,  ten  ranks  in  depth.  Without  and  beyond  in 
the  Place  du  Carrousel  stood  several  regiments  likewise 
drawn  up  in  parallel  lines,  ready  to  march  in  through 
the  arch  in  the  centre  ->  the  Triumphal  Arch,  where  the 
bronze  horses  of  St.  Mark  from  Venice  used  to  stand  in 
those  days.  At  either  end,  by  the  Galeries  du  Louvre, 
the  regimental  bands  were  stationed,  masked  by  the 
Polish  Lancers  then  on  duty. 

The  greater  part  of  the  vast  gravelled  space  was 
empty  as  an  arena,  ready  for  the  evolutions  of  those 
silent  masses  disposed  with  the  symmetry  of  military  art. 
The  sunlight  blazed  back  from  ten  thousand  bayonets  in 
thin  points  of  flame  ;  the  breeze  ruffled  the  men's  helmet 
plumes  till  they  swayed  like  the  crests  of  forest-trees 
before  a  gale.  The  mute  glittering  ranks  of  veterans  were 
full  of  bright  contrasting  colours,  thanks  to  their  different 
uniforms,  weapons,  accoutrements,  and  aiguillettes  ;  and 
the  whole  great  picture,  that  miniature  battle-field  before 
the  combat,  was  framed  by  the  majestic  towering  walls 
of  the  Tuileries,  which  officers  and  men  seemed  to  rival 


8 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


in  their  immobility.  Involuntarily  the  spectator  made 
the  comparison  between  the  walls  of  men  and  the  walls 
of  stone.  The  spring  sunlight,  flooding  white  masonry 
reared  but  yesterday  and  buildings  centuries  old,  shone 
full  likewise  upon  thousands  of  bronzed  faces,  each  one 
with  its  own  tale  of  perils  passed,  each  one  gravely 
expectant  of  perils  to  come. 

The  colonels  of  the  regiments  came  and  went  alone 
before  the  ranks  of  heroes  ;  and  behind  the  masses  of 
troops,  checkered  with  blue  and  silver  and  gold  and  purple, 
the  curious  could  discern  the  tricolour  pennons  on  the 
lances  of  some  half-a-dozen  indefatigable  Polish  cavalry, 
rushing  about  like  shepherds'  dogs  in  charge  of  a  flock, 
caracoling  up  and  down  between  the  troops  and  the 
crowd,  to  keep  the  gazers  within  their  proper  bounds. 
But  for  this  slight  flutter  of  movement,  the  whole  scene 
might  have  been  taking  place  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  The  very  spring  breeze, 
ruffling  up  the  long  fur  on  the  grenadiers'  bearskins, 
bore  witness  to  the  men's  immobility,  as  the  smothered 
murmur  of  the  crowd  emphasised  their  silence.  Now 
and  again  the  jingling  of  Chinese  bells,  or  a  chance  blow 
to  a  big  drum,  woke  the  reverberating  echoes  of  the 
Imperial  Palace  with  a  sound  like  the  far-off  rumblings  of 
thunder. 

An  indescribable,  unmistakable  enthusiasm  was  mani- 
fest in  the  expectancy  of  the  multitude.  France  was 
about  to  take  farewell  of  Napoleon  on  the  eve  of  a 
campaign  of  which  the  meanest  citizen  foresaw  the 
perils.  The  existence  of  the  French  Empire  was  at  stake 
— to  be,  or  not  to  be.  The  whole  citizen  population 
seemed  to  be  as  much  inspired  with  this  thought  as  that 
other  armed  population  standing  in  serried  and  silent 
ranks  in  the  enclosed  space,  with  the  Eagles  and  the 
genius  of  Napoleon  hovering  above  them. 

Those  very  soldiers  were  the  hope  of  France,  her  last 
drop  of  blood  ;  and  this  accounted  for  not  a  little  of  the 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  9 

anxious  interest  of  the  scene.  Most  of  the  gazers  in  the 
crowd  had  bidden  farewell — perhaps  farewell  for  ever — to 
the  men  who  made  up  the  rank  and  file  of  the  battalions  ; 
and  even  those  most  hostile  to  the  Emperor,  in  their 
hearts,  put  up  fervent  prayers  to  heaven  for  the  glory  of 
France  ;  and  those  most  weary  of  the  struggle  with  the 
rest  of  Europe  had  left  their  hatreds  behind  as  they 
passed  in  under  the  Triumphal  Arch.  They  too  felt 
that  in  the  hour  of  danger  Napoleon  meant  France 
herself. 

The  clock  of  the  Tuileries  struck  the  half-hour.  In  a 
moment  the  hum  of  the  crowd  ceased.  The  silence 
was  so  deep  that  you  might  have  heard  a  child  speak. 
The  old  noble  and  his  daughter,  wholly  intent,  seeming 
to  live  only  by  their  eyes,  caught  a  distinct  sound  of  spurs 
and  clank  of  swords  echoing  up  under  the  sonorous 
peristyle. 

And  suddenly  there  appeared  a  short,  somewhat  stout 
figure  in  a  green  uniform,  white  trousers,  and  riding 
boots  ;  a  man  wearing  on  his  head  a  cocked  hat  well  nigh 
as  magically  potent  as  its  wearer  ;  the  broad  red  ribbon 
of  the  Legion  of  Honour  rose  and  fell  on  his  breast,  and 
a  short  sword  hung  at  his  side.  At  one  and  the  same 
moment  the  man  was  seen  by  all  eyes  in  all  parts  of  the 
square. 

Immediately  «the  drums  beat  a  salute,  both  bands 
struck  up  a  martial  refrain,  caught  and  repeated  like  a 
fugue  by  every  instrument  from  the  thinnest  flutes  to 
the  largest  drum.  The  clangour  of  that  call  to  arms 
thrilled  through  every  soul.  The  colours  dropped,  and 
the  men  presented  arms,  one  unanimous  rhythmical 
movement  shaking  every  bayonet  from  the  foremost 
front  near  the  Palace  to  the  last  rank  in  the  Place  du 
Carrousel.  The  words  of  command  sped  from  line  to 
line  like  echoes.  The  whole  enthusiastic  multitude  sent 
up  a  shout  of  4  Long  live  the  Emperor  !  ' 

Everything  shook,  quivered,  and   thrilled   at  last. 


IO 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


Napoleon  had  mounted  his  horse.  It  was  his  movement 
that  had  put  life  into  those  silent  masses  of  men  ;  the 
dumb  instruments  had  found  a  voice  at  his  coming,  the 
Eagles  and  the  colours  had  obeyed  the  same  impulse 
which  had  brought  emotion  into  all  faces. 

The  very  walls  of  the  high  galleries  of  the  old  palace 
seemed  to  cry  aloud,  4  Long  live  the  Emperor  !  ' 

There  was  something  preternatural  about  it — it  was 
magic  at  work,  a  counterfeit  presentment  of  the  power 
of  God  ;  or  rather  it  was  a  fugitive  image  of  a  reign 
itself  so  fugitive. 

And  he  the  centre  of  such  love,  such  enthusiasm  and 
devotion,  and  so  many  prayers,  he  for  whom  the  sun  had 
driven  the  clouds  from  the  sky,  was  sitting  there  on  his 
horse,  three  paces  in  front  of  his  Golden  Squadron,  with 
the  Grand  Marshal  on  his  left,  and  the  Marshal-in-wait- 
ing on  his  right.  Amid  all  the  outburst  of  enthusiasm 
at  his  presence  not  a  feature  of  his  face  appeared  to 
alter. 

4  Oh  !  yes.  At  Wagram,  in  the  thick  of  the  firing, 
on  the  field  of  Borodino,  among  the  dead,  always  as  cool 
as  a  cucumber  he  is  !  '  said  the  grenadier,  in  answer  to 
the  questions  with  which  the  young  girl  plied  him. 
For  a  moment  Julie  was  absorbed  in  the  contemplation 
of  that  face,  so  quiet  in  the  security  of  conscious  power. 
The  Emperor  noticed  Mlle,  de  Chatillonest,  and  leant 
to  make  some  brief  remark  to  Duroc,  which  drew  a 
smile  from  the  Grand  Marshal.  Then  the  review 
began. 

If  hitherto  the  young  lady's  attention  had  been 
divided  between  Napoleon's  impassive  face  and  the  blue, 
red,  and  green  ranks  of  troops,  from  this  time  forth  she 
was  wholly  intent  upon  a  young  officer  moving  among 
the  lines  as  they  performed  their  swift  symmetrical 
evolutions.  She  watched  him  gallop  with  tireless 
activity  to  and  from  the  group  where  the  plainly  dressed 
Napoleon   shone   conspicuous.     The   officer   rode  a 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


ii 


splendid  black  horse.  His  handsome  sky-blue  uniform 
marked  him  out  amid  the  variegated  multitude  as  one  of 
the  Emperor's  orderly  staff-officers.  His  gold  lace 
glittered  in  the  sunshine  which  lighted  up  the  aigrette 
on  his  tall,  narrow  shako,  so  that  the  gazer  might  have 
compared  him  to  a  will-of-thc  wisp,  or  to  a  visible  spirit 
emanating  from  the  Emperor  to  infuse  movement  into 
those  battalions  whose  swaying  bayonets  flashed  into 
flames  ;  for,  at  a  mere  glance  from  his  eyes,  they  broke 
and  gathered  again,  surging  to  and  fro  like  the  waves  in 
a  bay,  or  again  swept  before  him  like  the  long  ridges  of 
high-crested  wave  which  the  vexed  Ocean  directs  against 
the  shore. 

When  the  manoeuvres  were  over  the  officer  galloped 
back  at  full  speed,  pulled  up  his  horse,  and  awaited 
orders.  He  was  not  ten  paces  from  Julie  as  he  stood 
before  the  Emperor,  much  as  General  Rapp  stands  in 
Gerard's  Battle  of  Justerlitz.  The  young  girl  could 
behold  her  lover  in  all  his  soldierly  splendour. 

Colonel  Victor  d'Aiglemont,  barely  thirty  years  of 
age,  was  tall,  slender,  and  well  made.  His  well- 
proportioned  figure  never  showed  to  better  advantage 
than  now  as  he  'exerted  his  strength  to  hold  in  the 
restive  animal,  whose  back  seemed  to  curve  gracefully  to 
the  rider's  weight.  His  brown  masculine  face  possessed 
the  indefinable  charm  of  perfectly  regular  features  com- 
bined with  youth.  The  fiery  eyes  under  the  broad 
forehead,  shaded  by  thick  eyebrows  and  long  lashes, 
looked  like  white  ovals  bordered  by  an  outline  of  black. 
His  nose  had  the  delicate  curve  of  an  eagle's  beak  ;  the 
sinuous  lines  of  the  inevitable  black  moustache  enhanced 
the  crimson  of  the  lips.  The  brown  and  tawny  shades 
which  overspread  the  wide  high-coloured  cheeks  told  a 
tale  of  unusual  vigour,  and  his  whole  face  bore  the 
impress  of  dashing  courage.  He  was  the  very  model 
which  French  artists  seek  to-day  for  the  typical  hero  of 
Imperial  France.    The  horse  which  he  rode  was  covered 


I  2 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


with  sweat,  the  animal's  quivering  head  denoted  the 
last  degree  of  restiveness  ;  his  hind  hoofs  were  set  down 
«ride  apart  and  exactly  in  a  line,  he  shook  his  long  thick 
tail  to  the  wind  ;  in  his  fidelity  to  his  master  he  seemed 
to  be  a  visible  presentment  of  that  master's  devotion  to 
the  Emperor. 

Julie  saw  her  lover  watching  intently  for  the  Emperor's 
glances,  and  felt  a  momentary  pang  of  jealousy,  for  as 
yet  he  had  not  given  her  a  look.  Suddenly  at  a  word 
from  his  sovereign  Victor  gripped  his  horse's  flanks  and 
set  out  at  a  gallop,  but  the  animal  took  fright  at  a 
shadow  cast  by  a  post,  shied,  backed,  and  reared  up  so 
suddenly  that  his  rider  was  all  but  thrown  off.  Julie 
cried  out,  her  face  grew  white,  people  looked  at  her 
curiously,  but  she  saw  no  one,  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  too  mettlesome  beast.  The  officer  gave  the  horse 
a  sharp  admonitory  cut  with  the  whip,  and  galloped  off 
with  Napoleon's  order. 

Julie  was  so  absorbed,  so  dizzy  writh  sights  and  sounds, 
that  unconsciously  she  clung  to  her  father's  arm  so 
tightly  that  he  could  read  her  thoughts  by  the  varying 
pressure  of  her  fingers.  When  Victor  was  all  but 
flung  out  of  the  sacdle,  she  clutched  her  father  with  a 
convulsive  grip  as  if  she  herself  were  in  danger  of 
falling,  and  the  old  man  looked  at  his  daughter's  tell- 
tale face  with  dark  and  painful  anxiety.  Pity,  jealousy, 
something  even  of  regret  stole  across  every  drawn  and 
wrinkled  line  of  mouth  and  brow.  When  he  saw  the 
unwonted  light  in  Julie's  eves,  when  that  cry  broke 
from  her,  when  the  convulsive  grasp  of  her  fingers  drew 
awav  the  veil  and  put  him  in  possession  of  her  secret, 
then  with  that  revelation  of  her  love  there  came  surely 
some  swift  revelation  of  the  future.  Mournful  fore- 
bodings could  be  read  in  his  own  face. 

Julie's  soul  seemed  at  that  moment  to  have  passed  into 
the  officer's  being.  A  torturing  thought  more  cruel  than 
any  previous  dread  contracted  the  old  man's  painworn 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


13 


features,  as  he  saw  the  glance  of  understanding  that 
passed  between  the  soldier  and  Julie.  The  girl's  eyes 
were  wet,  her  cheeks  glowed  with  unwonted  colour. 
Her  father  turned  abruptly  and  led  her  away  into  the 
Garden  of  the  Tuileries. 

1  Why,  father,'  she  cried,  i  there  are  still  the  regiments 
in  the  Place  du  Carrousel  to  be  passed  in  review.' 

i  No,  child,  all  the  troops  are  marching  out.* 

cl  think  you  are  mistaken,  father;  M.  d'Aiglemont 
surely  told  them  to  advance  ' 

'  But  I  feel  ill,  my  child,  and  I  do  not  care  to  stay.' 

Julie  could  readily  believe  the  words  when  she 
glanced  at  his  face  ;  he  looked  quite  worn  out  by  his 
father's  anxieties. 

*  Are  you  feeling  very  ill  ? 9  she  asked  indifferently, 
her  mind  was  so  full  of  other  thoughts. 

c  Every  day  is  a  reprieve  for  me,  is  it  not  ? 9  returned 
her  father. 

1  Now  do  you  mean  to  make  me  miserable  again  by 
talking  about  your  death  ?  I  was  in  such  spirits  !  Do 
pray  get  rid  of  those  horrid  gloomy  ideas  of  yours/ 

The  father  heaved  a  sigh.  c  Ah  !  spoiled  child/  he 
cried,  f  the  best  hearts  are  sometimes  very  cruel.  We 
devote  our  whole  lives  to  you,  you  are  our  one  thought, 
we  plan  for  your  welfare,  sacrifice  our  tastes  to  your 
whims,  idolise  you,  give  the  very  blood  in  our  veins  for 
you,  and  all  this  is  nothing,  is  it  ?  Alas  !  yes,  you  take 
it  all  as  a  matter  of  course.  If  we  would  always  have 
your  smiles  and  your  disdainful  love,  we  should  need  the 
power  of  God  in  heaven.  Then  comes  another,  a  lover, 
a  husband,  and  steals  away  your  heart.' 

Julie  looked  in  amazement  at  her  father  ;  he  walked 
slowly  along,  and  there  was  no  light  in  the  eyes  which 
he  turned  upon  her. 

'  You  hide  yourself  even  from  us,'  he  continued,  6  but, 
perhaps,  also  you  hide  yourself  from  yourself  ' 

4  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  father  ?  ' 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


c  I  think  that  you  have  secrets  from  me,  Julie. — 
You  love,'  he  went  on  quickly,  as  he  saw  the  colour  rise 
to  her  face.  1  Oh  !  I  hoped  that  you  would  stay  with 
your  old  father  until  he  died.  I  hoped  to  keep  you  with 
me,  still  radiant  and  happy,  to  admire  you  as  you  were 
but  so  lately.  So  long  as  I  knew  nothing  of  your 
future  I  could  believe  in  a  happy  lot  for  you  ;  but  now 
I  cannot  possibly  take  away  with  me  a  hope  of  happiness 
for  your  life,  for  you  love  the  colonel  even  more  than 
the  cousin.    I  can  no  longer  doubt  it.' 

i  And  why  should  I  be  forbidden  to  love  him  ?'  asked 
Julie,  with  lively  curiosity  in  her  face. 

c  Ah,  my  Julie,  you  would  not  understand  me,'  sighed 
the  father. 

c  Tell  me,  all  the  same,'  said  Julie,  with  an  involuntary 
petulant  gesture. 

cVery  well,  child,  listen  to  me.  Girls  are  apt  to 
imagine  noble  and  enchanting  and  totally  imaginary 
figures  in  their  own  minds  ;  they  have  fanciful  extrava- 
gant ideas  about  men,  and  sentiment,  and  life  ;  and  then 
they  innocently  endow  somebody  or  other  with  all  the 
perfections  of  their  day-dreams,  and  put  their  trust  in 
him.  They  fall  in  love  with  this  imaginary  creature 
in  the  man  of  their  choice;  and  then,  when  it  is  too 
late  to  escape  from  their  fate,  behold  their  first 
idol,  the  illusion  made  fair  with  their  fancies,  turns  to 
an  odious  skeleton.  Julie,  I  would  rather  have  you  fall 
in  love  with  an  old  man  than  with  the  Colonel.  Ah  ! 
if  you  could  but  see  things  from  the  standpoint  of  ten 
years  hence,  you  would  admit  that  my  old  experience 
was  right.  I  know  what  Victor  is,  that  gaiety  of  his  is 
simply  animal  spirits— the  gaiety  of  the  barracks.  He 
has  no  ability,  and  he  is  a  spendthrift.  He  is  one  of 
those  men  whom  Heaven  created  to  eat  and  digest  four 
meals  a  day,  to  sleep,  to  fall  in  love  with  the  first 
woman  that  comes  to  hand,  and  to  fight.  He  does  not 
understand  life.     His  kind  heart,  for  he  has  a  kind 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  15 

heart,  will  perhaps  lead  him  to  give  his  purse  to  a 
sufferer  or  to  a  comrade  ;  but  he  is  careless,  he  has  not  the 
delicacy  of  heart  which  makes  us  slaves  to  a  woman's 
happiness,  he  is  ignorant,  he  is  selfish.  There  are  plenty 
of  buts  ' 

4  But,  father,  he  must  surely  be  clever,  he  must  have 
ability,  or  he  would  not  be  a  colonel  ' 

4  My  dear,  Victor  will  be  a  colonel  all  his  life. — I 
have  seen  no  one  who  appears  to  me  to  be  worthy  of 
you,'  the  old  father  added,  with  a  kind  of  enthusiasm. 

He  paused  an  instant,  looked  at  his  daughter,  and 
added,  c  Why,  my  poor  Julie,  you  are  still  too  young,  too 
fragile,  too  delicate  for  the  cares  and  rubs  of  married 
life.  D'Aiglemont's  relations  have  spoiled  him,  just  as 
your  mother  and  I  have  spoiled  you.  What  hope  is 
there  that  you  two  could  agree,  with  two  imperious 
wills  diametrically  opposed  to  each  other  ?  You  will  be 
either  the  tyrant  or  the  victim,  and  either  alternative 
means,  for  a  wife,  an  equal  sum  of  misfortune.  But  you 
are  modest  and  sweet-natured,  you  would  yield  from  the 
first.  In  short,' he  added,  in  a  quivering  voice, 'there 
is  a  grace  of  feeling  in  you  which  would  never  be 

valued,  and  then  '  he  broke  off,  for  the  tears  overcame 

him. 

6  Victor  will  give  you  pain  through  all  the  girlish 
qualities  of  your  young  nature,'  he  went  on,  after  a 
pause.  c  I  know  what  soldiers  are,  my  Julie  ;  I  have 
been  in  the  army.  In  a  man  of  that  kind,  love  very 
seldom  gets  the  better  of  old  habits,  due  partly  to  the 
miseries  amid  which  soldiers  live,  partly  to  the  risks 
they  run  in  a  life  of  adventure.' 

*  Then  do  you  mean  to  cross  my  inclinations,  do  you, 
father  ?  '  asked  Julie,  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest.  c  Am  I 
to  marry  to  please  you  and  not  to  please  myself  ?  ' 

'To  please  me!'  cried  her  father,  with  a  start  of 
surprise.  '  To  please  mey  child  ?  when  you  will  not 
hear  the  voice  that  upbraids  you  so  tenderly  very  much 


1 6  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

longer!  But  I  have  always  heard  children  impute 
personal  motives  for  the  sacrifices  that  their  parents 
make  for  them.  Marry  Victor,  my  Julie  !  Some  day 
you  will  bitterly  deplore  his  ineptitude,  his  thriftless 
ways,  his  selfishness,  his  lack  of  delicacy,  his  inability  to 
understand  love,  and  countless  troubles  arising  through 
him.  Then,  remember,  that  here  under  these  trees 
your  old  father's  prophetic  voice  sounded  in  your  ears 
in  vain.' 

He  said  no  more  \  he  had  detected  a  rebellious  shake 
of  the  head  on  his  daughter's  part.  Both  made  several 
paces  towards  the  carriage  which  was  waiting  for  them 
at  the  grating.  During  that  interval  of  silence,  the 
young  girl  stole  a  glance  at  her  father's  face,  and  little 
by  little  her  sullen  brow  cleared.  The  intense  pain 
visible  on  his  bowed  forehead  made  a  lively  impression 
upon  her. 

'Father,'  she  began  in  gentle,  tremulous  tones,  i\ 
promise  to  say  no  more  about  Victor  until  you  have 
overcome  your  prejudices  against  him.' 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  Two 
tears  which  filled  his  eyes  overflowed  down  his  withered 
cheeks.  He  could  not  take  Julie  in  his  arms  in  that 
crowded  place  ;  but  he  pressed  her  hand  tenderly.  A  few 
minutes  later  when  they  had  taken  their  places  in  the 
cabriolet,  all  the  anxious  thought  which  had  gathered 
about  his  brow  had  completely  disappeared.  Julie's 
pensive  attitude  gave  him  far  less  concern  than  the 
innocent  joy  which  had  betrayed  her  secret  during  the 
review. 

Nearly  a  year  had  passed  since  the  Emperor's  last 
review.  In  early  March  1814  a  calèche  was  rolling 
along  the  high  road  from  Amboise  to  Tours.  As  the 
carriage  came  out  from  beneath  the  green-roofed  aisle  of 
walnut  trees  by  the  post-house  of  La  Frillière,  the 
horses  dashed  forward  with  such  speed  that  in  a  moment 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


they  gained  the  bridge  built  across  the  Cise  at  the 
point  of  its  confluence  with  the  Loire.  There,  however, 
they  came  to  a  sudden  stand.  One  of  the  traces  had 
given  way  in  consequence  of  the  furious  pace  at  which 
the  post-boy,  obedient  to  his  orders,  had  urged  on  four 
horses,  the  most  vigorous  of  their  breed.  Chance,  there- 
fore, gave  the  two  recently  awakened  occupants  of  the 
carriage  an  opportunity  of  seeing  one  of  the  most  lovely 
landscapes  along  the  enchanting  banks  of  the  Loire,  and 
that  at  their  full  leisure. 

At  a  glance  the  travellers  could  see  to  the  right  the 
whole  winding  course  of  the  Cise  meandering  like  a 
silver  snake  among  the  meadows,  where  the  grass  had 
taken  the  deep,  bright  green  of  early  spring.  To  the 
left  lay  the  Loire  in  all  its  glory.  A  chill  morning 
breeze,  ruffling  the  surface  of  the  stately  river,  had  fretted 
the  broad  sheets  of  water  far  and  wide  into  a  network 
of  ripples,  which  caught  the  gleams  of  the  sun,  so  that 
the  green  islets  here  and  there  in  its  course  shone  like 
gems  set  in  a  gold  necklace.  On  the  opposite  bank  the 
fair  rich  meadows  of  Touraine  stretched  away  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  see  ;  the  low  hills  of  the  Cher,  the  only 
limits  to  the  view,  lay  on  the  far  horizon,  a  luminous 
line  against  the  clear  blue  sky.  Tours  itself,  framed  by 
the  trees  on  the  islands  in  a  setting  of  spring  leaves, 
seemed  to  rise  like  Venice  out  of  the  waters,  and  her  old 
cathedral  towers  soaring  in  air  were  blended  with  the 
pale  fantastic  cloud  shapes  in  the  sky. 

Over  the  side  of  the  bridge,  where  the  carriage  had 
come  to  a  stand,  the  traveller  looks  along  a  line 
of  cliffs  stretching  as  far  as  Tours,  Nature  in  some 
freakish  mood  must  have  raised  these  barriers  of  rock, 
undermined  incessantly  by  the  rippling  Loire  at  their 
feet,  for  a  perpetual  wonder  for  spectators.  The  village 
of  Vouvray  nestles,  as  it  were,  among  the  clefts  and 
crannies  of  the  crags,  which  begin  to  describe  a  bend  at 
the  junction  of  the  Loire  and  Cise.    A  whole  population 

B 


1 8  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

of  vine-dressers  lives,  in  fact,  in  appalling  insecurity  in 
holes  in  their  jagged  sides  for  the  whole  way  between 
Vouvray  and  Tours.  In  some  places  there  are  three 
tiers  of  dwellings  hollowed  out,  one  above  the  other,  in 
the  rock,  each  row  communicating  with  the  next  by 
dizzy  staircases  cut  likewise  in  the  face  of  the  cliff.  A 
little  girl  in  a  short  red  petticoat  runs  out  into  her 
garden  on  the  roof  of  another  dwelling  ;  you  can  watch 
a  wreath  of  hearth-smoke  curling  up  among  the  shoots 
and  trails  of  the  vines.  Men  are  at  work  in  their  almost 
perpendicular  patches  of  ground,  an  old  woman  sits 
tranquilly  spinning  under  a  blossoming  almond  tree  on 
a  crumbling  mass  of  rock,  and  smiles  down  on  the 
dismay  of  the  travellers  far  below  her  feet.  The  cracks 
in  the  ground  trouble  her  as  little  as  the  precarious  state 
of  the  old  wall,  a  pendant  mass  of  loose  stones,  only 
kept  in  position  by  the  crooked  stems  of  its  ivy  mantle. 
The  sound  of  coopers'  mallets  rings  through  the  skyey 
caves  ;  for  here,  where  Nature  stints  human  industry  of 
soil,  the  soil  is  everywhere  tilled,  and  everywhere 
fertile. 

No  view  along  the  whole  course  of  the  Loire  can 
compare  with  the  rich  landscape  of  Touraine,  here  out- 
spread beneath  the  traveller's  eyes.  The  triple  picture, 
thus  barely  sketched  in  outline,  is  one  of  those  scenes 
which  the  imagination  engraves  for  ever  upon  the 
memory  ;  let  a  poet  fall  under  its  charm,  and  he  shall  be 
haunted  by  visions  which  shall  reproduce  its  romantic 
loveliness  out  of  the  vague  substance  of  dreams. 

As  the  carriage  stopped  on  the  bridge  over  the  Cise, 
white  sails  came  out  here  and  there  from  among  the 
islands  in  the  Loire  to  add  new  grace  to  the  perfect  view. 
The  subtle  scent  of  the  willows  by  the  water's  edge  was 
mingled  with  the  damp  odour  of  the  breeze  from  the 
river.  The  monotonous  chant  of  a  goat-herd  added  a 
plaintive  note  to  the  sound  of  birds'  songs  in  a  chorus 
which  never  ends;  the  cries  of  the  boatmen  brought 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


l9 


tidings  of  distant  busy  life.  Here  was  Touraine  in  all 
its  glory,  and  the  very  height  of  the  splendour  of  spring. 
Here  was  the  one  peaceful  district  in  France  in  those 
troublous  days  ;  for  it  was  so  unlikely  that  a  foreign 
army  should  trouble  its  quiet  that  Touraine  might  be 
said  to  defy  invasion. 

As  soon  as  the  calèche  stopped,  a  head  covered  with  a 
foraging  cap  was  put  out  of  the  window,  and  soon  after- 
wards an  impatient  military  man  flung  open  the  carriage 
door  and  sprang  down  into  the  road  to  pick  a  quarrel 
with  the  postillion,  but  the  skill  with  which  the  Tou- 
rangeau was  repairing  the  trace  restored  Colonel  d'Aigle- 
mont's  equanimity.  He  went  back  to  the  carriage, 
stretched  himself  to  relieve  his  benumbed  muscles, 
yawned,  looked  about  him,  and  finally  laid  a  hand  on 
the  arm  of  a  young  woman  warmly  wrapped  up  in  a 
furred  pelisse. 

'Come,  Julie,'  he  said  hoarsely,  'just  wake  up  and 
take  a  look  at  this  country.    It  is  magnificent. 9 

Julie  put  her  head  out  of  the  window.  She  wore  a 
travelling  cap  of  sable  fur.  Nothing  could  be  seen  of  her 
but  her  face,  for  the  whole  of  her  person  was  completely 
concealed  by  the  folds  of  her  fur  pelisse.  The  young 
girl  who  tripped  to  the  review  at  the  Tuileries  with 
light  footsteps  and  joy  and  gladness  in  her  heart  was 
scarcely  recognisable  in  Julie  d'Aiglemont.  Her  face, 
delicate  as  ever,  had  lost  the  rose-colour  which  once  gave 
it  so  rich  a  glow.  A  few  straggling  locks  of  black  hair, 
straightened  out  by  the  damp  night  air,  enhanced  its 
dead  whiteness,  and  all  its  life  and  sparkle  seemed  to  be 
torpid.  Yet  her  eyes  glittered  with  preternatural  bright- 
ness in  spite  of  the  violet  shadows  under  the  lashes  upon 
her  wan  cheeks. 

She  looked  out  with  indifferent  eyes  over  the  fields 
towards  the  Cher,  at  the  islands  in  the  river,  at  the  line  of 
the  crags  of  Vouvray  stretching  along  the  Loire  towards 
Tours  ;  then  she  sank  back  as  soon  as  possible  into  her 


20 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


seat  in  the  calèche.   She  did  not  care  to  give  a  glance  to 

the  enchanting  valley  of  the  Cise. 

c  Yes,  it  is  wonderful/  she  said,  and  out  in  the  open 

air  her  voice  sounded  weak  and  faint  to  the  last  degree. 

Evidently  she  had  had  her  way  with  her  father,  to  her 

misfortune. 

c  Would  you  not  like  to  live  here,  Julie  ?  * 

c  Yes  ;  here  or  anywhere,'  she  answered  listlessly. 

*  Do  you  feel  ill  ? 9  asked  Colonel  d'Aiglemont. 

'  No,  not  at  all,'  she  answered  with  momentary  energy  ; 
and,  smiling  at  her  husband,  she  added,  c  I  should  like  to 
go  to  sleep.' 

Suddenly  there  came  a  sound  of  a  horse  galloping 
towards  them.  Victor  d'Aiglemont  dropped  his  wife's 
hand  and  turned  to  watch  the  bend  in  the  road.  No 
sooner  had  he  taken  his  eyes  from  Julie's  pale  face  than 
all  the  assumed  gaiety  died  out  of  it  ;  it  was  as  if  a  light 
had  been  extinguished.  She  felt  no  wish  to  look  at  the 
landscape,  no  curiosity  to  see  the  horseman  who  was 
galloping  towards  them  at  such  a  furious  pace,  and,  en- 
sconcing herself  in  her  corner,  stared  out  before  her  at 
the  hindquarters  of  the  post-horses,  looking  as  blank  as 
any  Breton  peasant  listening  to  his  recteur* s  sermon. 

Suddenly  a  young  man  riding  a  valuable  horse  came 
out  from  behind  the  clump  of  poplars  and  flowering 
briar-rose. 

4  It  is  an  Englishman,'  remarked  the  Colonel. 

*  Lord  bless  you,  yes,  General,'  said  the  post-boy  \  *  he 
belongs  to  the  race  of  fellows  who  have  a  mind  to  gobble 
up  France,  they  say.' 

The  stranger  was  one  of  the  foreigners  travelling  in 
France  at  the  time  when  Napoleon  detained  all  British 
subjects  within  the  limits  of  the  Empire,  by  way  of 
reprisals  for  the  violation  of  the  Treaty  of  Amiens,  an 
outrage  of  international  law  perpetrated  by  the  Court  of 
St.  James.  These  prisoners,  compelled  to  submit  to  the 
Emperor's  pleasure,  were  not  all  suffered  to  remain  in 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


21 


the  houses  where  they  were  arrested,  nor  yet  in  the 
places  of  residence  which  at  first  they  were  permitted  to 
choose.  Most  of  the  English  colony  in  Touraine  had 
been  transplanted  thither  from  different  places  where 
their  presence  was  supposed  to  be  inimical  to  the  interests 
of  the  Continental  Policy. 

The  young  man,  who  was  taking  the  tedium  of  the 
early  morning  hours  on  horseback,  was  one  of  these 
victims  of  bureaucratic  tyranny.  Two  years  previously, 
a  sudden  order  from  the  Foreign  Office  had  dragged 
him  from  Montpellier,  whither  he  had  gone  on  account 
of  consumptive  tendencies.  He  glanced  at  the  Comte 
d'Aiglemont,  saw  that  he  was  a  military  man,  and 
deliberately  looked  away,  turning  his  head  somewhat 
abruptly  towards  the  meadows  by  the  Cise. 

'  The  English  are  all  as  insolent  as  if  the  globe 
belonged  to  them,'  muttered  the  Colonel.  4  Luckily, 
Soult  will  give  them  a  thrashing  directly/ 

The  prisoner  gave  a  glance  to  the  calèche  as  he  rode  by. 
Brief  though  that  glance  was,  he  had  yet  time  to  notice 
the  sad  expression  which  lent  an  indefinable  charm  to 
the  Countess's  pensive  face.  Many  men  are  deeply 
moved  by  the  mere  semblance  of  suffering  in  a  woman  ; 
they  take  the  look  of  pain  for  a  sign  of  constancy  or 
of  love.  Julie  herself  was  so  much  absorbed  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  opposite  cushion  that  she  saw 
neither  the  horse  nor  the  rider.  The  damaged  trace 
meanwhile  had  been  quickly  and  strongly  repaired  ;  the 
Count  stepped  into  his  place  again  ;  and  the  post-boy, 
doing  his  best  to  make  up  for  lost  time,  drove  the 
carriage  rapidly  along  the  embankment.  On  they  drove 
under  the  overhanging  cliffs,  with  their  picturesque 
vine-dressers'  huts  and  stores  of  wine  maturing  in  their 
dark  sides,  till  in  the  distance  uprose  the  spire  of  the 
famous  Abbey  of  Marmoutiers,  the  retreat  of  St.  Martin. 

i  What  can  that  diaphanous  milord  want  with  us  ?  * 
exclaimed  the  Colonel,  turning  to  assure  himself  that  the 


22 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


horseman  who  had  followed  them  from  the  bridge  was 
the  young  Englishman. 

After  all,  the  stranger  committed  no  breach  of  good 
manners  by  riding  along  on  the  footway,  and  Colonel 
d'Aiglemont  was  fain  to  lie  back  in  his  corner  after 
sending  a  scowl  in  the  Englishman's  direction.  But  in 
spite  of  his  hostile  instincts,  he  could  not  help  noticing 
the  beauty  of  the  animal  and  the  graceful  horsemanship 
of  the  rider.  The  young  man's  face  was  of  that  pale, 
fair-complexioned,  insular  type,  which  is  almost  girlish  in 
the  softness  and  delicacy  of  its  colour  and  texture.  He  was 
tall,  thin,  and  fair-haired,  dressed  with  the  extreme  and 
elaborate  neatness  characteristic  of  a  man  of  fashion  in 
prudish  England.  Any  one  might  have  thought  that 
bashfulness  rather  than  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  the 
Countess  had  called  up  that  flush  into  his  face.  Once 
only  Julie  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  the  stranger,  and 
then  only  because  she  was  in  a  manner  compelled  to  do 
so,  for  her  husband  called  upon  her  to  admire  the  action 
of  the  thorough-bred.  It  so  happened  that  their  glances 
clashed  ;  and  the  shy  Englishman,  instead  of  riding  abreast 
of  the  carriage,  fell  behind  on  this,  and  followed  them  at 
a  distance  of  a  few  paces. 

Yet  the  Countess  had  scarcely  given  him  a  glance  ;  she 
saw  none  of  the  various  perfections,  human  and  equine, 
commended  to  her  notice,  and  fell  back  again  in  the 
carriage  with  a  slight  movement  of  the  eyelids  intended 
to  express  her  acquiescence  in  her  husband's  views.  The 
Colonel  fell  asleep  again,  and  both  husband  and  wife 
reached  Tours  without  another  word.  Not  one  of  those 
enchanting  views  of  ever-changing  landscape  through 
which  they  sped  had  drawn  so  much  as  a  glance  from 
Julie's  eyes. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  looked  now  and  again  at  her  sleep- 
ing husband.  While  she  looked,  a  sudden  jolt  shook 
something  down  upon  her  knees.  It  was  her  father's 
portrait,  a  miniature  which  she  wore  suspended  about 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  23 

her  neck  by  a  black  cord.  At  the  sight  of  it,  the  tears, 
till  then  kept  back,  overflowed  her  eyes,  but  no  one,  save 
perhaps  the  Englishman,  saw  them  glitter  there  for  a 
brief  moment  before  they  dried  upon  her  pale  cheeks. 

Colonel  d'Aiglemont  was  on  his  way  to  the  South. 
Marshal  Soult  was  repelling  an  English  invasion  of 
Beam  ;  and  d'Aiglemont,  the  bearer  of  the  Emperor's 
orders  to  the  Marshal,  seized  the  opportunity  of  taking 
his  wife  as  far  as  Tours  to  leave  her  with  an  elderly 
relative  of  his  own,  far  away  from  the  dangers  threatening 
Paris. 

Very  shortly  the  carriage  rolled  over  the  paved  road 
of  Tours,  over  the  bridge,  along  the  Grande-Rue,  and 
stopped  at  last  before  the  old  mansion  of  the  ci-devant 
Marquise  de  Listomère-Landon. 

The  Marquise  de  Listomère-Landon,  with  her  white 
hair,  pale  face,  and  shrewd  smile,  was  one  of  those  fine 
old  ladies  who  still  seem  to  wear  the  paniers  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  affect  caps  of  an  extinct  mode. 
They  are  nearly  alway  caressing  in  their  manners,  as  if 
the  heyday  of  love  still  lingered  on  for  these  septua- 
genarian portraits  of  the  age  of  Louis  Quinze,  with  the 
faint  perfume  of  poudre  à  la  maréchale  always  clinging 
about  them.  Bigoted  rather  than  pious,  and  less  of 
bigots  than  they  seem,  women  who  can  tell  a  story  well 
and  talk  still  better,  their  laughter  comes  more  readily 
for  an  old  memory  than  for  a  new  jest — the  present 
intrudes  upon  them. 

When  an  old  waiting-woman  announced  to  the 
Marquise  de  Listomère-Landon  (to  give  her  the  title 
which  she  was  soon  to  resume)  the  arrival  of  a  nephew 
whom  she  had  not  seen  since  the  outbreak  of  the  war 
with  Spain,  the  old  lady  took  off  her  spectacles  with 
alacrity,  shut  the  Galerie  de  ?  ancienne  Cour  (her  favourite 
work),  and  recovered  something  like  youthful  activity, 
hastening  out  upon  the  flight  of  steps  to  greet  the  young 
couple  there. 


24 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


Aunt  and  niece  exchanged  a  rapid  glance  of  survey. 

c  Good  morning,  dear  aunt,'  cried  the  Colonel,  giving 
the  old  lady  a  hasty  embrace.  *  I  am  bringing  a  young 
lady  to  put  under  your  wing.  I  have  come  to  put  my 
treasure  in  your  keeping.  My  Julie  is  neither  jealous 
not  a  coquette,  she  is  as  good  as  an  angel.  I  hope  that 
she  will  not  be  spoiled  here/  he  added,  suddenly  inter- 
rupting himself. 

4  Scapegrace  !  '  returned  the  Marquise,  with  a  satirical 
glance  at  her  nephew. 

She  did  not  wait  for  her  niece  to  approach  her,  but 
with  a  certain  kindly  graciousness  went  forward  herself 
to  kiss  Julie,  who  stood  there  thoughtfully,  to  all  appear- 
ance more  embarrassed  than  curious  concerning  her  new 
relation. 

c  So  we  are  to  make  each  other's  acquaintance,  are  we, 
my  love  ?  '  the  Marquise  continued.  c  Do  not  be  too 
much  alarmed  of  me.  I  always  try  not  to  be  an  old 
woman  with  young  people.' 

On  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  the  Marquise 
ordered  breakfast  for  her  guests  in  provincial  fashion  ; 
but  the  Count  checked  his  aunt's  flow  of  words  by  saying 
soberly  that  he  could  only  remain  in  the  house  while  the 
horses  were  changing.  On  this  the  three  hurried  into 
the  drawing-room.  The  Colonel  had  barely  time  to  tell 
the  story  of  the  political  and  military  events  which  had 
compelled  him  to  ask  his  aunt  for  a  shelter  for  his  young 
wife.  While  he  talked  on  without  interruption,  the  older 
lady  looked  from  her  nephew  to  her  niece,  and  took  the 
sadness  in  Julie's  white  face  for  grief  at  the  enforced 
separation.  *  Eh  !  eh  !  '  her  looks  seemed  to  say,  c  these 
young  things  are  in  love  with  each  other.' 

The  crack  of  the  postillion's  whip  sounded  outside  in 
the  silent  old  grass-grown  courtyard.  Victor  embraced 
his  aunt  once  more,  and  rushed  out. 

6  Good-bye,  dear,'  he  said,  kissing  his  wife,  who  had 
followed  him  down  to  the  carriage. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  25 

c  Oh  !  Victor,  let  me  come  still  further  with  you/  she 

pleaded  coaxingly.    c  I  do  not  want  to  leave  you  * 

4  Can  you  seriously  mean  it  ?  ' 

c  Very  well,'  said  Julie,  c  since  you  wish  it.'  The 
carriage  disappeared. 

*  So  you  are  very  fond  of  my  poor  Victor  ?  '  said  the 
Marquise,  interrogating  her  niece  with  one  of  those 
sagacious  glances  which  dowagers  give  younger  women. 

c  Alas,  madame  ! 9  said  Julie,  c  must  one  not  love  a 
man  well  indeed  to  marry  him  ?  * 

The  words  were  spoken  with  an  artless  accent  which 
revealed  either  a  pure  heart  or  inscrutable  depths.  How 
could  a  woman,  who  had  been  the  friend  of  Duclos  and 
the  Maréchal  de  Richelieu,  refrain  from  trying  to  read 
the  riddle  of  this  marriage  ?  Aunt  and  niece  were 
standing  on  the  steps,  gazing  after  the  fast  vanishing 
calèche.  The  look  in  the  young  Countess's  eyes  did 
not  mean  love  as  the  Marquise  understood  it.  The 
good  lady  was  a  Provençale,  and  her  passions  had  been 
lively. 

6  So  you  were  captivated  by  my  good-for-nothing  of  a 
nephew  ?  '  she  asked. 

Involuntarily  Julie  shuddered,  something  in  the  ex- 
perienced coquette's  look  and  tone  seemed  to  say  that 
Mme.  de  Listomère-Landon's  knowledge  of  her  husband's 
character  went  perhaps  deeper  than  his  wife's.  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont,  in  dismay,  took  refuge  in  this  transparent 
dissimulation,  ready  to  her  hand,  the  first  resource  of  an 
artless  unhappiness.  Mme.  de  Listomère  appeared  to 
be  satisfied  with  Julie's  answers  ;  but  in  her  secret  heart 
she  rejoiced  to  think  that  here  was  a  love  affair  on  hand 
to  enliven  her  solitude,  for  that  her  niece  had  some 
amusing  flirtation  on  foot  she  was  fully  convinced. 

In  the  great  drawing-room,  hung  with  tapestry  framed 
in  strips  of  gilding,  young  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  sat  before 
a  blazing  fire,  behind  a  Chinese  screen  placed  to  shut 
out  the  cold  draughts  from  the  windows,  and  her  heavy 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


mood  scarcely  lightened.  Among  the  old  eighteenth- 
century  furniture,  under  the  old  panelled  ceiling,  it  was 
not  very  easy  to  be  gay.  Yet  the  young  Parisienne  took 
a  sort  of  pleasure  in  this  entrance  upon  a  life  of  complete 
solitude  and  in  the  solemn  silence  of  the  old  provincial 
house.  She  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the  aunt,  a 
stranger,  to  whom  she  had  written  a  bride's  letter  on  her 
marriage,  and  then  sat  as  silent  as  if  she  had  been  listen- 
ing to  an  opera.  Not  until  two  hours  had  been  spent 
in  an  atmosphere  of  quiet  befitting  La  Trappe,  did  she 
suddenly  awaken  to  a  sense  of  uncourteous  behaviour, 
and  bethink  herself  of  the  short  answers  which  she  had 
given  her  aunt.  Mme.  de  Listomère,  with  the  gracious 
tact  characteristic  of  a  bygone  age,  had  respected  her 
niece's  mood.  When  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  became  con- 
scious of  her  shortcomings,  the  dowager  sat  knitting, 
though  as  a  matter  of  fact  she  had  several  times  left  the 
room  to  superintend  preparations  in  the  Green  Chamber, 
whither  the  Countess's  luggage  had  been  transported  ; 
now,  however,  she  had  returned  to  her  great  armchair, 
and  stole  a  glance  from  time  to  time  at  this  young 
relative.  Julie  felt  ashamed  of  giving  way  to  irresistible 
broodings,  and  tried  to  earn  her  pardon  by  laughing  at 
herself. 

*  My  dear  child,  we  know  the  sorrows  of  widowhood,' 
returned  her  aunt.  But  only  the  eyes  of  forty  years 
could  have  distinguished  the  irony  hovering  about  the 
old  lady's  mouth. 

Next  morning  the  Countess  improved.  She  talked. 
Mme.  de  Listomère  no  longer  despaired  of  fathoming 
the  new-made  wife,  whom  yesterday  she  had  set  down 
as  a  dull,  unsociable  creature  and  discoursed  on  the 
delights  of  the  country,  of  dances,  of  houses  where  they 
could  visit.  All  that  day  the  Marquise's  questions  were 
so  many  snares;  it  was  the  old  habit  of  the  old  Court, 
she  could  not  help  setting  traps  to  discover  her  niece's 
character.    For  several  days  Julie,  plied  with  tempta- 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  27 

tions,  steadfastly  declined  to  seek  amusement  abroad  ;  and 
much  as  the  old  lady's  pride  longed  to  exhibit  her  pretty 
niece,  she  was  fain  to  renounce  all  hope  of  taking  her 
into  society,  for  the  young  Countess  was  still  in  mourn- 
ing for  her  father,  and  found  in  her  loss  and  her  mourning 
dress  a  pretext  for  her  sadness  and  desire  for  seclusion. 

By  the  end  of  a  week  the  dowager  admired  Julie's 
angelic  sweetness  of  disposition,  her  diffident  charm,  her 
indulgent  temper,  and  thenceforward  began  to  take  a 
prodigious  interest  in  the  mysterious  sadness  gnawing  at 
this  young  heart.  The  Countess  was  one  of  those 
women  who  seem  born  to  be  loved  and  to  bring  happi- 
ness with  them.  Mme.  de  Listomère  found  her  niece's 
society  grown  so  sweet  and  precious,  that  she  doted  upon 
Julie,  and  could  no  longer  think  of  parting  with  her. 
A  month  sufficed  to  establish  an  eternal  friendship 
between  the  two  ladies.  The  dowager  noticed,  not 
without  surprise,  the  changes  that  took  place  in  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont  ;  gradually  her  bright  colour  died  away, 
and  her  face  became  dead  white.  Yet,  Julie's  spirits 
rose  as  the  bloom  faded  from  her  cheeks.  Some- 
times the  dowager's  sallies  provoked  outbursts  of  merri- 
ment or  peals  of  laughter,  promptly  repressed,  however, 
by  some  clamorous  thought. 

Mme.  de  Listomère  had  guessed  by  this  time  that  it 
was  neither  Victor's  absence  nor  a  father's  death  which 
threw  a  shadow  over  her  niece's  life  ;  but  her  mind  was 
so  full  of  dark  suspicions,  that  she  found  it  difficult  to  lay 
a  finger  upon  the  real  cause  of  the  mischief.  Possibly 
truth  is  only  discoverable  by  chance.  A  day  came, 
however,  at  length  when  Julie  flashed  out  before  her 
aunt's  astonished  eyes  into  a  complete  forgetfulness  of 
her  marriage  ;  she  recovered  the  wild  spirits  of  careless 
girlhood.  Mme.  de  Listomère  then  and  there  made  up 
her  mind  to  fathom  the  depths  of  this  soul,  for  its  ex- 
ceeding simplicity  was  as  inscrutable  as  dissimulation. 

Night  was  falling.    The  two  ladies  were  sitting  by 


28 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


the  window  which  looked  out  upon  the  street,  and  Julie 
was  looking  thoughtful  again,  when  some  one  went  by 
on  horseback. 

c  There  goes  one  of  your  victims,'  said  the  Marquise. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  looked  up  ;  dismay  and  surprise 
blended  in  her  face. 

c  He  is  a  young  Englishman,  the  Honourable  Arthur 
Ormond,  Lord  Grenville's  eldest  son.  His  history  is 
interesting.  His  physicians  sent  him  to  Montpellier  in 
1802  ;  it  was  hoped  that  in  that  climate  he  might  recover 
from  the  lung  complaint  which  was  gaining  ground. 
He  was  detained,  like  all  his  fellow-countrymen,  by 
Buonaparte  when  war  broke  out.  That  monster  cannot 
live  without  fighting.  The  young  Englishman,  by  way 
of  amusing  himself,  took  to  studying  his  own  complaint, 
which  was  believed  to  be  incurable.  By  degrees  he 
acquired  a  liking  for  anatomy  and  physic,  and  took  quite 
a  craze  for  that  kind  of  thing,  a  most  extraordinary  taste 
in  a  man  of  quality,  though  the  Regent  certainly  amused 
himself  with  chemistry  !  In  short,  Monsieur  Arthur 
made  astonishing  progress  in  his  studies  ;  his  health  did 
the  same  under  the  faculty  of  Montpellier  ;  he  consoled 
his  captivity,  and  at  the  same  time  his  cure  was  thor- 
oughly completed.  They  say  that  he  spent  two  whole 
years  in  a  cowshed,  living  on  cresses  and  the  milk  of  a 
cow  brought  from  Switzerland,  breathing  as  seldom  as  he 
could,  and  never  speaking  a  word.  Since  he  came  to 
Tours  he  has  lived  quite  alone  ;  he  is  as  proud  as  a  pea- 
cock ;  but  you  have  certainly  made  a  conquest  of  him, 
for  probably  it  is  not  on  my  account  that  he  has 
ridden  under  the  window  twice  every  day  since  you 
have  been  here. — He  has  certainly  fallen  in  love  with 
you.' 

That  last  phrase  roused  the  Countess  like  magic. 
Her  involuntary  start  and  smile  took  the  Marquise  by 
surprise.  So  far  from  showing  a  sign  of  the  instinctive 
satisfaction  felt  by  the  most  strait-laced  of  women  when 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


she  learns  that  she  has  destroyed  the  peace  of  mind  of 
some  male  victim,  there  was  a  hard,  haggard  expression 
in  Julie's  face — a  look  of  repulsion  amounting  almost  to 
loathing, 

A  woman  who  loves  will  put  the  whole  world  under 
the  ban  of  Love's  empire  for  the  sake  of  the  one  whom 
she  loves  ;  but  such  a  woman  can  laugh  and  jest  ;  and 
Julie  at  that  moment  looked  as  if  the  memory  of  some 
recently  escaped  peril  was  too  sharp  and  fresh  not  to 
bring  with  it  a  quick  sensation  of  pain.  Her  aunt,  by 
this  time  convinced  that  Julie  did  not  love  her  nephew, 
was  stupefied  by  the  discovery  that  she  loved  nobody 
else.  She  shuddered  lest  a  further  discovery  should 
show  her  Julie's  heart  disenchanted,  lest  the  experience 
of  a  day,  or  perhaps  of  a  night,  should  have  revealed  to  a 
young  wife  the  full  extent  of  Victor's  emptiness. 

4  If  she  has  found  him  out,  there  is  an  end  of  it,' 
thought  the  dowager.  c  My  nephew  will  soon  be  made 
to  feel  the  inconveniences  of  wedded  life.' 

The  Marquise  now  proposed  to  convert  Julie  to  the 
monarchical  doctrines  of  the  times  of  Louis  Quinze  ;  but 
a  few  hours  later  she  discovered,  or,  more  properly  speak- 
ing, guessed,  the  not  uncommon  state  of  affairs,  and  the 
real  cause  of  her  niece's  low  spirits. 

Julie  turned  thoughtful  on  a  sudden,  and  went  to  her 
room  earlier  than  usual.  When  her  maid  left  her  for 
the  night,  she  still  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  yellow  velvet 
depths  of  a  great  chair,  an  old-world  piece  of  furniture  as 
well  suited  for  sorrow  as  for  happy  people.  Tears 
flowed,  followed  by  sighs  and  meditation.  After  a  while 
she  drew  a  little  table  to  her,  sought  writing  materials, 
and  began  to  write.  The  hours  went  by  swiftly.  Julie's 
confidences  made  to  the  sheet  of  paper  seemed  to  cost  her 
dear  ;  every  sentence  set  her  dreaming,  and  at  last  she 
suddenly  burst  into  tears.  The  clocks  were  striking 
two.  Her  head,  grown  heavy  as  a  dying  woman's,  was 
bowed  over  her  breast.    When  she  raised  it,  her  aunt 


3° 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


appeared  before  her  as  suddenly  as  if  she  had  stepped  out 
of  the  background  of  tapestry  upon  the  walls. 

4  What  can  be  the  matter  with  you,  child  ? 9  asked  the 
Marquise.  c  Why  are  you  sitting  up  so  late  ?  And  why, 
in  the  first  place,  are  you  crying  alone,  at  your  age  ? 9 

Without  further  ceremony  she  sat  down  beside  her 
niece,  her  eyes  the  while  devouring  the  unfinished  letter. 

4  Were  you  writing  to  your  husband  ? 9 

4  Do  I  know  where  he  is  ?  '  returned  the  Countess. 

Her  aunt  thereupon  took  up  the  sheet  and  proceeded 
to  read  it.  She  had  brought  her  spectacles;  the  deed 
was  premeditated.  The  innocent  writer  of  the  letter 
allowed  her  to  take  it  without  the  slightest  remark.  It 
was  neither  lack  of  dignity  nor  consciousness  of  secret 
guilt  which  left  her  thus  without  energy.  Her  aunt  had 
come  in  upon  her  at  a  crisis.  She  was  helpless  ;  right  or 
wrong,  reticence  and  confidence,  like  all  things  else, 
were  matters  of  indifference.  Like  some  young  maid 
who  has  heaped  scorn  upon  her  lover,  and  feels  so  lonely 
and  sad  when  evening  comes,  that  she  longs  for  him  to 
come  back  or  for  a  heart  to  which  she  can  pour  out  her 
sorrow,  Julie  allowed  her  aunt  to  violate  the  seal  which 
honour  places  upon  an  open  letter,  and  sat  musing 
while  the  Marquise  read  on  : — 

cMy  dear  Louisa, — Why  do  you  ask  so  often  for 
the  fulfilment  of  as  rash  a  promise  as  two  young  and  in- 
experienced girls  could  make  ?  You  say  that  you  often 
ask  yourself  why  I  have  given  no  answer  to  your  ques- 
tions for  these  six  months.  If  my  silence  told  you 
nothing,  perhaps  you  will  understand  the  reasons  for  it 
to-day,  as  you  read  the  secrets  which  I  am  about  to 
betray.  I  should  have  buried  them  for  ever  in  the 
depths  of  my  heart  if  you  had  not  announced  your  own 
approaching  marriage.  You  are  about  to  be  married, 
Louisa.  The  thought  makes  me  shiver.  Poor  little 
one  !  marry,  yes,  and  in  a  few  months'  time  one  of  the 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  31 


keenest  pangs  of  regret  will  be  the  recollection  of  a  self 
which  used  to  be,  of  the  two  young  girls  who  sat  one 
evening  under  one  of  the  tallest  oak-trees  on  the  hillside 
at  Ecouen,  and  looked  along  the  fair  valley  at  our  feet  in 
the  light  of  the  sunset,  which  caught  us  in  its  glow. 
We  sat  on  a  slab  of  rock  in  ecstasy,  which  sobered  down 
into  melancholy  of  the  gentlest.  You  were  the  first  to 
discover  that  the  far-off  sun  spoke  to  us  of  the  future. 
How  inquisitive  and  how  silly  we  were  !  Do  you 
remember  all  the  absurd  things  we  said  and  did  ?  We 
embraced  each  other  ;  "like  lovers," said  we.  We  solemnly 
promised  that  the  first  bride  should  faithfully  reveal  to 
the  other  the  mysteries  of  marriage,  the  joys  which  our 
childish  minds  imagined  to  be  so  delicious.  That  even- 
ing will  complete  your  despair,  Louisa.  In  those  days 
you  were  young  and  beautiful  and  careless,  if  not 
radiantly  happy  ;  a  few  days  of  marriage,  and  you  will  be, 
what  I  am  already — ugly,  wretched,  and  old.  Need  I 
tell  you  how  proud  I  was  and  how  vain  and  glad  to  be 
married  to  Colonel  Victor  d'Aiglemont  ?  And  besides, 
how  could  I  tell  you  now  ?  for  I  cannot  remember  that 
old  self.  A  few  moments  turned  my  girlhood  to  a 
dream.  All  through  the  memorable  day  which  conse- 
crated a  chain,  the  extent  of  which  was  hidden  from  me, 
my  behaviour  was  not  free  from  reproach.  Once  and 
again  my  father  tried  to  repress  my  spirits;  the  joy 
which  I  showed  so  plainly  was  thought  unbefitting  the 
occasion,  my  talk  scarcely  innocent,  simply  because  I  was 
so  innocent.  I  played  endless  child's  tricks  with  my 
bridal  veil,  my  wreath,  my  gown.  Left  alone  that  night 
in  the  room  whither  I  had  been  conducted  in  state,  I 
planned  a  piece  of  mischief  to  tease  Victor.  While  I 
awaited  his  coming,  my  heart  beat  wildly,  as  it  used  to  do 
when  I  was  a  child  stealing  into  the  drawing-room  on  the 
last  day  of  the  old  year  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  New 
Year's  gifts  piled  up  there  in  heaps.  When  my  husband 
came  in  and  looked  for  me,  my  smothered  laughter  ring- 


3* 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


ing  out  from  beneath  the  lace  in  which  I  had  shrouded 
myself,  was  the  last  outburst  of  the  delicious  merriment 
which  brightened  our  games  in  childhood  .  .  .  ' 

When  the  dowager  had  finished  reading  the  letter,  and 
after  such  a  beginning  the  rest  must  have  been  sad  indeed, 
she  slowly  laid  her  spectacles  on  the  table,  put  the  letter 
down  beside  them,  and  looked  fixedly  at  her  niece.  Age 
had  not  dimmed  the  fire  in  those  green  eyes  as  yet. 

4  My  little  girl,'  she  said,  c  a  married  woman  cannot 
write  such  a  letter  as  this  to  a  young  unmarried  woman  j 
it  is  scarcely  proper  9 

i  So  I  was  thinking,'  Julie  broke  in  upon  her  aunt.  *  I 
felt  ashamed  of  myself  while  you  were  reading  it.' 

c  If  a  dish  at  table  is  not  to  our  taste,  there  is  no  occa- 
sion to  disgust  others  with  it,  child,'  the  old  lady  con- 
tinued benignly,  c  especially  when  marriage  has  seemed 
to  us  all,  from  Eve  downwards,  so  excellent  an  institu- 
tion. .  .  .  You  have  no  mother  ?  ' 

The  Countess  trembled,  then  she  raised  her  face 
meekly,  and  said — 

4  I  have  missed  my  mother  many  times  already  during 
the  past  year  ;  but  I  have  myself  to  blame,  I  would  not 
listen  to  my  father.  He  was  opposed  to  my  marriage  ;  he 
disapproved  of  Victor  as  a  son-in-law.' 

She  looked  at  her  aunt.  The  old  face  was  lighted  up 
with  a  kindly  look,  and  a  thrill  of  joy  dried  Julie's  tears. 
She  held  out  her  young,  soft  hand  to  the  old  Marquise,  who 
seemed  to  ask  for  it,  and  the  understanding  between  the 
two  women  was  completed  by  the  close  grasp  of  their 
fingers. 

'  Poor  orphan  child  ! 9 

The  words  came  like  a  final  flash  of  enlightenment  to 
Julie.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  heard  her  father's  pro- 
phetic voice  again. 

*  Your  hands  are  burning  !  Are  they  always  like  this  ?  ' 
asked  the  Marquise. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


33 


'The  fever  only  left  me  seven  or  eight  days  ago.' 
i  You  had  a  fever  upon  you,  and  said  nothing  about  it 
to  me  !  ' 

c  I  have  had  it  for  a  year,'  said  Julie,  with  a  kind  of 
timid  anxiety. 

c  My  good  little  angel,  then  your  married  life  hitherto 
has  been  one  long  time  of  suffering  ?  ' 

Julie  did  not  venture  to  reply,  but  an  affirmative  sign 
revealed  the  whole  truth. 

c  Then  you  are  unhappy  ? 9 

*  Oh  !  no,  no,  aunt.  Victor  loves  me,  he  almost 
idolises  me,  and  I  adore  him,  he  is  so  kind.' 

c  Yes,  you  love  him  ;  but  you  avoid  him,  do  you 
not?' 

f  Yes  .  .  .  sometimes.  ...  He  seeks  me  too  often.' 

'  And  often  when  you  are  alone  you  are  troubled  with  the 
fear  that  he  may  suddenly  break  in  upon  your  solitude  ?  ' 

c  Alas  !  yes,  aunt.  But,  indeed,  I  love  him,  I  do  assure 
you.' 

'Do  you  not,  in  your  own  thoughts,  blame  yourself 
because  you  find  it  impossible  to  share  his  pleasures  ? 
Do  you  never  think  at  times  that  marriage  is  a  heavier 
yoke  than  an  illicit  passion  could  be  ?  ' 

f  Oh  !  that  is  just  it,'  she  wept.  c  It  is  all  a  riddle  to 
me,  and  can  you  guess  it  all  ?  My  faculties  are  be- 
numbed, I  have  no  ideas,  I  can  scarcely  see  at  all.  I  am 
weighed  down  by  vague  dread,  which  freezes  me  till  I 
cannot  feel,  and  keeps  me  in  continual  torpor.  I  have 
no  voice  with  which  to  pity  myself,  no  words  to  express 
my  trouble.  I  suffer,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  suffer  when 
Victor  is  happy  at  my  cost.' 

c  Babyish  nonsense,  and  rubbish,  all  of  it  !  '  exclaimed 
the  aunt,  and  a  gay  smile,  an  after-glow  of  the  joys  of 
her  own  youth,  suddenly  lighted  up  her  withered  face. 

?  And  do  you  too  laugh  !  '  the  younger  woman  cried 
despairingly. 

4  It  was  just  my  own  case,'  the  Marquise  returned 

c 


34 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


promptly.  cAnd  now  that  Victor  has  left  you,  you 
have  become  a  girl  again,  recovering  a  tranquillity  with- 
out pleasure  and  without  pain,  have  you  not  ? 9 

Julie  opened  wide  eyes  of  bewilderment. 

4  In  fact,  my  angel,  you  adore  Victor,  do  you  not  ? 
But  still  you  would  rather  be  a  sister  to  him  than  a 
wife,  and,  in  short,  your  marriage  is  emphatically  not  a 
success  ?  9 

4  Well — no,  aunt.  But  why  do  you  smile  ?  * 
c  Oh  !  you  are  right,  poor  child  !  There  is  nothing 
very  amusing  in  all  this.  Your  future  would  be  big  with 
more  than  one  mishap  if  I  had  not  taken  you  under  my 
protection,  if  my  old  experience  of  life  had  not  guessed 
the  very  innocent  cause  of  your  troubles.  My  nephew 
did  not  deserve  his  good  fortune,  the  blockhead  !  In  the 
reign  of  our  well-beloved  Louis  Quinze,  a  young  wife  in 
your  position  would  very  soon  have  punished  her  husband 
for  behaving  like  a  ruffian.  The  selfish  creature  !  The 
men  who  serve  under  this  Imperial  tyrant  are  all  of  them 
ignorant  boors.  They  take  brutality  for  gallantry  ;  they 
know  no  more  of  women  than  they  know  of  love  ;  and 
imagine  that  because  they  go  out  to  face  death  on  the 
morrow,  they  may  dispense  to-day  with  all  consideration 
and  attentions  for  us.  The  time  was  when  a  man  could 
love  and  die  too  at  the  proper  time.  My  niece,  I  will  form 
you.  I  will  put  an  end  to  this  unhappy  divergence 
between  you,  a  natural  thing  enough,  but  it  would  end  in 
mutual  hatred  and  desire  for  a  divorce,  always  supposing 
that  you  did  not  die  on  the  way  to  despair.' 

Julie's  amazement  equalled  her  surprise  as  she  listened 
to  her  aunt.  She  was  surprised  by  her  language,  dimly 
divining  rather  than  appreciating  the  wisdom  of  the 
words  she  heard,  and  very  much  dismayed  to  find  that 
this  relative,  out  of  a  great  experience,  passed  judgment 
upon  Victor  as  her  father  had  done,  though  in  somewhat 
milder  terms.  Perhaps  some  quick  prevision  of  the 
future  crossed  her  mind  ;  doubtless,  at  any  rate,  she  felt 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


35 


the  heavy  weight  of  the  burden  which  must  inevitably 
overwhelm  her,  for  she  burst  into  tears,  and  sprang  to  the 
old  lady's  arms.    '  Be  my  mother/  she  sobbed. 

The  aunt  shed  no  tears.  The  Revolution  had  left  old 
ladies  of  the  Monarchy  but  few  tears  to  shed.  Love, 
in  bygone  days,  and  the  Terror  at  a  later  time,  had 
familiarised  them  with  extremes  of  joy  and  anguish  in 
such  a  sort  that,  amid  the  perils  of  life,  they  preserved 
their  dignity  and  coolness,  a  capacity  for  sincere  but 
undemonstrative  affection  which  never  disturbed  their 
well-bred  self-possession,  and  a  dignity  of  demeanour 
which  a  younger  generation  has  done  very  ill  to  discard. 

The  dowager  took  Julie  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  her 
on  the  forehead  with  a  tenderness  and  pity  more  often 
found  in  women's  ways  and  manner  than  in  their  hearts. 
Then  she  coaxed  her  niece  with  kind,  soothing  words, 
assured  her  of  a  happy  future,  lulled  her  with  promises 
of  love,  and  put  her  to  bed  as  if  she  had  been  not  a 
niece,  but  a  daughter,  a  much-loved  daughter  whose 
hopes  and  cares  she  had  made  her  own.  Perhaps  the 
old  Marquise  had  found  her  own  youth  and  inexperience 
and  beauty  again  in  this  nephew's  wife.  And  the 
Countess  fell  asleep,  happy  to  have  found  a  friend,  nay,  a 
mother,  to  whom  she  could  tell  everything  freely. 

Next  morning,  when  the  two  women  kissed  each 
other  with  heartfelt  kindness,  and  that  look  of  intelli- 
gence which  marks  a  real  advance  in  friendship,  a  closer 
intimacy  between  two  souls,  they  heard  the  sound  of 
horsehoofs,  and,  turning  both  together,  saw  the  young 
Englishman  ride  slowly  past  the  window,  after  his 
wont.  Apparently  he  had  made  a  certain  study  of  the 
life  led  by  the  two  lonely  women,  for  he  never  failed  to 
ride  by  as  they  sat  at  breakfast,  and  again  at  dinner. 
His  horse  slackened  pace  of  its  own  accord,  and  for  the 
space  of  time  required  to  pass  the  two  windows  in  the 
room,  its  rider  turned  a  melancholy  look  upon  the 
Countess,  who  seldom  deigned  to  take  the  slightest 


36  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

notice  of  him.  Not  so  the  Marquise.  Minds  not 
necessarily  little  find  it  difficult  to  resist  the  little 
curiosity  which  fastens  upon  the  most  trifling  event 
that  enlivens  provincial  life  ;  and  the  Englishman's 
mute  way  of  expressing  his  timid,  earnest  love  tickled 
Mme.  de  Listomère.  For  her  the  periodically  recurrent 
glance  became  a  part  of  the  day's  routine,  hailed  daily 
with  new  jests.  As  the  two  women  sat  down  to  table, 
both  of  them  looked  out  at  the  same  moment.  This 
time  Julie's  eyes  met  Arthur's  with  such  a  precision  of 
sympathy  that  the  colour  rose  to  her  face.  The 
stranger  immediately  urged  his  horse  into  a  gallop  and 
went. 

c  What  is  to  be  done,  madame  ?  '  asked  Julie.  c  People 
see  this  Englishman  go  past  the  house,  and  they  will 
take  it  for  granted  that  I  ' 

4  Yes,'  interrupted  her  aunt. 

c  Well,  then,  could  I  not  tell  him  to  discontinue  his 
promenades  ?  ' 

c  Would  not  that  be  a  way  of  telling  him  that  he  was 
dangerous  ?  You  might  put  that  notion  into  his  head. 
And  besides,  can  you  prevent  a  man  from  coming  and 
going  as  he  pleases?  Our  meals  shall  be  served  in 
another  room  to-morrow  ;  and  when  this  young 
gentleman  sees  us  no  longer,  there  will  be  an  end  of 
making  love  to  you  through  the  window.  There,  dear 
child,  that  is  how  a  woman  of  the  world  does.' 

But  the  measure  of  Julie's  misfortune  was  to  be  filled 
up.  The  two  women  had  scarcely  risen  from  table 
when  Victor's  man  arrived  in  hot  haste  from  Bourges 
with  a  letter  for  the  Countess  from  her  husband.  The 
servant  had  ridden  by  unfrequented  ways. 

Victor  sent  his  wife  news  of  the  downfall  of  the 
Empire  and  the  capitulation  of  Paris.  He  himself  had 
gone  over  to  the  Bourbons,  and  all  France  was 
welcoming  them  back  with  transports  of  enthusiasm. 
He  could  not  go  so  far  as  Tours,  but  he  begged  her  to 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


37 


come  at  once  to  join  him  at  Orleans,  where  he  hoped 
to  be  in  readiness  with  passports  for  her.  His  servant, 
an  old  soldier,  would  be  her  escort  as  far  as  Orleans  ;  he 
(Victor)  believed  that  the  road  was  still  open. 

i  You  have  not  a  moment  to  lose,  madame,'  said  the 
man.  4  The  Prussians,  Austrians,  and  English  are 
about  to  effect  a  junction  either  at  Blois  or  at  Orleans.' 

A  few  hours  later,  Julie's  preparations  were  made,  and 
she  started  out  upon  her  journey  in  an  old  travelling 
carriage  lent  by  her  aunt. 

4  Why  should  you  not  come  with  us  to  Paris  ?  '  she 
asked,  as  she  put  her  arms  about  the  Marquise.  4  Now 
that  the  Bourbons  have  come  back,  you  would  be  ' 

c  Even  if  there  had  not  been  this  unhoped-for  return, 
I  should  still  have  gone  to  Paris,  my  poor  child,  for  my 
advice  is  only  too  necessary  to  both  you  and  Victor.  So 
I  shall  make  all  my  preparations  for  rejoining  you 
there.' 

Julie  set  out.  She  took  her  maid  with  her,  and  the 
old  soldier  galloped  beside  the  carriage  as  escort.  At 
nightfall,  as  they  changed  horses  for  the  last  stage 
before  Blois,  Julie  grew  uneasy.  All  the  way  from 
Amboise  she  had  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  behind 
them,  a  carriage  following  hers  had  kept  at  the  same 
distance.  She  stood  on  the  step  and  looked  out  to  see 
who  her  travelling  companions  might  be,  and  in  the 
moonlight  saw  Arthur  standing  three  paces  away,  gazing 
fixedly  at  the  chaise  which  contained  her.  Again  their 
eyes  met.  The  Countess  hastily  flung  herself  back  in 
her  seat,  but  a  feeling  of  dread  set  her  pulses  throbbing. 
It  seemed  to  her,  as  to  most  innocent  and  inexperienced 
young  wives,  that  she  was  herself  to  blame  for  this  love 
which  she  had  all  unwittingly  inspired.  With  this 
thought  came  an  instinctive  terror,  perhaps  a  sense  of 
her  own  helplessness  before  aggressive  audacity.  One 
of  a  man's  strongest  weapons  is  the  terrible  power  of 
compelling  a  woman  to  think  of  him  when  her  naturally 


3« 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


lively  imagination  takes  alarm  or  offence  at  the  thought 
that  she  is  followed. 

The  Countess  bethought  herself  of  her  aunt's  adV  ;e, 
and  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  not  stir  from  her 
place  during  the  rest  of  the  journey  ;  but  every  time  the 
horses  were  changed  she  heard  the  Englishman  pacing 
round  the  two  carriages,  and  again  upon  the  road  heard 
the  importunate  sound  of  the  wheels  of  his  calèche. 
Julie  soon  began  to  think  that,  when  once  reunited  to 
her  husband,  Victor  would  know  how  to  defend  her 
against  this  singular  persecution. 

*  Yet  suppose  that  in  spite  of  everything,  this  young 
man  does  not  love  me  ?  '  This  was  the  thought  that 
came  last  of  all. 

No  sooner  did  she  reach  Orleans  than  the  Prussians 
stopped  the  chaise.  It  was  wheeled  into  an  innyard  and 
put  under  a  guard  of  soldiers.  Resistance  was  out  of 
the  question.  The  foreign  soldiers  made  the  three 
travellers  understand  by  signs  that  they  were  obeying 
orders,  and  that  no  one  could  be  allowed  to  leave  the 
carriage.  For  about  two  hours  the  Countess  sat  in 
tears,  a  prisoner  surrounded  by  the  guard,  who  smoked, 
laughed,  and  occasionally  stared  at  her  with  insolent 
curiosity.  At  last,  however,  she  saw  her  captors  fall 
away  from  the  carriage  with  a  sort  of  respect,  and  heard 
at  the  same  time  the  sound  of  horses  entering  the  yard. 
Another  moment,  and  a  little  group  of  foreign  officers, 
with  an  Austrian  general  at  their  head,  gathered  about 
the  door  of  the  travelling  carriage. 

'Madame,'  said  the  General,  6  pray  accept  our 
apologies.  A  mistake  has  been  made.  You  may 
continue  your  journey  without  fear  ;  and  here  is  a 
passport  which  will  spare  you  all  further  annoyance  of 
any  kind.' 

Tremblingly  the  Countess  took  the  paper,  and 
faltered  out  some  vague  words  of  thanks.  She  saw 
Arthur,  now  wearing  an   English   uniform,  standing 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


39 


beside  the  General,  and  could  not  doubt  that  this  prompt 
deliverance  was  due  to  him.  The  young  Englishman 
himself  looked  half  glad,  half  melancholy  ;  his  face  was 
turned  away,  and  he  only  dared  to  steal  an  occasional 
glance  at  Julie's  face. 

Thanks  to  the  passport,  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  reached 
Paris  without  further  misadventure,  and  there  she  found 
her  husband.  Victor  d'Aiglemont,  released  from  his 
oath  of  allegiance  to  the  Emperor,  had  met  with  a  most 
flattering  reception  from  the  Comte  d'Artois,  recently 
appointed  Lieutenant-General  of  the  kingdom  by  his 
brother  Louis  xviii.  D'Aiglemont  received  a  com- 
mission in  the  Life  Guards,  equivalent  to  the  rank  ot 
general.  But  amid  the  rejoicings  over  the  return  of  the 
Bourbons,  fate  dealt  poor  Julie  a  terrible  blow.  The 
death  of  the  Marquise  de  Listomère-Landon  was  an 
irreparable  loss.  The  old  lady  died  of  joy  and  of  an 
accession  of  gout  to  the  heart  when  the  Due  d'Angou- 
lême  came  back  to  Tours,  and  the  one  living  being 
entitled  by  her  age  to  enlighten  Victor,  the  woman 
who,  by  discreet  counsels,  might  have  brought  about 
perfect  unanimity  of  husband  and  wife,  was  dead  ;  and 
Julie  felt  the  full  extent  of  her  loss.  Henceforward 
she  must  stand  alone  between  herself  and  her  husband. 
But  she  was  young  and  timid  ;  there  could  be  no  doubt 
of  the  result,  or  that  from  the  first  she  would  elect  to 
bear  her  lot  in  silence.  The  very  perfection  of  her 
character  forbade  her  to  venture  to  swerve  from  her 
duties,  or  to  attempt  to  inquire  into  the  cause  of  her 
sufferings,  for  to  put  an  end  to  them  would  have  been 
to  venture  on  delicate  ground,  and  Julie's  girlish 
modesty  shrank  from  the  thought. 

A  word  as  to  M.  d'Aiglemont's  destinies  under  the 
Restoration. 

How  many  men  are  there  whose  utter  incapacity  is  a 
secret  kept  from  most  of  their  acquaintance.  For  such 
as  these  high  rank,  high  office,  illustrious  birth,  a  certain 


4o 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


veneer  of  politeness,  and  considerable  reserve  of  manner, 
or  the  prestige  of  great  fortunes,  are  but  so  many 
sentinels  to  turn  back  critics  who  would  penetrate  to 
the  presence  of  the  real  man.  Such  men  are  like  kings, 
in  that  their  real  figure,  character,  and  life  can  never  be 
known  nor  justly  appreciated,  because  they  are  always 
seen  from  too  near  or  too  far.  Factitious  merit  has  a 
way  of  asking  questions  and  saying  little  \  and  under- 
stands the  art  of  putting  others  forward  to  save  the 
necessity  of  posing  before  them  ;  then,  with  a  happy 
knack  of  its  own,  it  draws  and  attaches  others  by  the 
thread  of  the  ruling  passion  or  self-interest,  keeping  men 
of  far  greater  abilities  in  play  like  puppets,  and  despising 
those  whom  it  has  brought  down  to  its  own  level.  The 
petty  fixed  idea  naturally  prevails  ;  it  has  the  advantage 
of  persistence  over  the  plasticity  of  great  thoughts. 

The  observer  who  should  seek  to  estimate  and  appraise 
the  negative  values  of  these  empty  heads  needs  subtlety 
rather  than  superior  wit  for  the  task  ;  patience  is  a  more 
necessary  part  of  his  judicial  outfit  than  great  mental 
grasp,  cunning  and  tact  rather  than  any  elevation  or 
greatness  of  ideas.  Yet  skilfully  as  such  usurpers  can 
cover  and  defend  their  weak  points,  it  is  difficult  to 
delude  wife  and  mother  and  children  and  the  house- 
friend  of  the  family  ;  fortunately  for  them,  however, 
these  persons  almost  always  keep  a  secret  which  in 
a  manner  touches  the  honour  of  all,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  go  so  far  as  to  help  to  foist  the  imposture  upon 
the  public.  And  if,  thanks  to  such  domestic  conspiracy, 
many  a  noodle  passes  current  for  a  man  of  ability,  on  the 
other  hand  many  another  who  has  real  ability  is  taken 
for  a  noodle  to  redress  the  balance,  and  the  total 
average  of  this  kind  of  false  coin  in  circulation  in  the 
state  is  a  pretty  constant  quantity. 

Bethink  yourself  now  of  the  part  to  be  played  by  a 
clever  woman  quick  to  think  and  feel,  mated  with  a 
husband  of  this  kind,  and  can  you  not  see  a  vision  of 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


lives  full  of  sorrow  and  self-sacrifice  ?  Nothing  upon  earth 
can  repay  such  hearts  so  full  of  love  and  tender  tact. 
Put  a  strong-willed  woman  in  this  wretched  situation, 
and  she  will  force  a  way  out  of  it  for  herself  by  a  crime, 
like  Catherine  n.,  whom  men  nevertheless  style  cthe 
Great.'  But  these  women  are  not  all  seated  upon 
thrones,  they  are  for  the  most  part  doomed  to  domestic 
unhappiness  none  the  less  terrible  because  obscure. 

Those  who  seek  consolation  in  this  present  world  for 
their  woes  often  effect  nothing  but  a  change  of  ills  if 
they  remain  faithful  to  their  duties  ;  or  they  commit  a 
sin  if  they  break  the  laws  for  their  pleasure.  All  these 
reflections  are  applicable  to  Julie's  domestic  life. 

Before  the  fall  of  Napoleon  nobody  was  jealous  of 
d'Aiglemont.  He  was  one  colonel  among  many,  an 
efficient  orderly  staff-officer,  as  good  a  man  as  you  could 
find  for  a  dangerous  mission,  as  unfit  as  well  could  be 
for  an  important  command.  D'Aiglemont  was  looked 
upon  as  a  dashing  soldier  such  as  the  Emperor  liked,  the 
kind  of  man  whom  his  mess  usually  calls  ca  good 
fellow.'  The  Restoration  gave  him  back  his  title  of 
Marquis,  and  did  not  find  him  ungrateful  ;  he  followed 
the  Bourbons  into  exile  at  Ghent,  a  piece  of  logical 
loyalty  which  falsified  the  horoscope  drawn  for  him  by 
his  late  father-in-law,  who  predicted  that  Victor  would 
remain  a  colonel  all  his  life.  After  the  Hundred  Days 
he  received  the  appointment  of  Lieutenant-General,  and 
for  the  second  time  became  a  marquis  ;  but  it  was  M. 
d'Aiglemont's  ambition  to  be  a  peer  of  France.  He 
adopted,  therefore,  the  maxims  and  the  politics  of  the 
Conservateur,  cloaked  himself  in  dissimulation  which  hid 
nothing  (there  being  nothing  to  hide),  cultivated  gravity 
of  countenance  and  the  art  of  asking  questions  and 
saying  little,  and  was  taken  for  a  man  of  profound 
wisdom.  Nothing  drew  him  from  his  intrenchments 
behind  the  forms  of  politeness  ;  he  laid  in  a  provision  of 
formulas,  and  made  lavish  use  of  his  stock  of  the  catch- 


42  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

words  coined  at  need  in  Paris  to  give  fools  the  small 
change  for  the  ore  of  great  ideas  and  events.  Among 
men  of  the  world  he  was  reputed  a  man  of  taste  and 
discernment  ;  and  as  a  bigoted  upholder  of  aristocratic 
opinions  he  was  held  up  for  a  noble  character.  If  by 
chance  he  slipped  now  and  again  into  his  old  light- 
headedness or  levity,  others  were  ready  to  discover  an 
under-current  of  diplomatic  intention  beneath  his  inanity 
and  silliness.  i  Oh  !  he  only  says  exactly  as  much  as  he 
means  to  say,'  thought  these  excellent  people. 

So  d'Aiglemont's  defects  and  good  qualities  stood  him 
alike  in  good  stead.  He  did  nothing  ta  forfeit  a  high 
military  reputation  gained  by  his  dashing  courage,  for  he 
had  never  been  a  commander-in-chief.  Great  thoughts 
surely  were  engraven  upon  that  manly  aristocratic 
countenance,  which  imposed  upon  every  one  but  his 
own  wife.  And  when  everybody  else  believed  in  the 
Marquis  d'Aiglemont's  imaginary  talents,  the  Marquis 
persuaded  himself  before  he  had  done  that  he  was  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  men  at  Court,  where,  thanks  to 
his  purely  external  qualifications,  he  was  in  favour  and 
taken  at  his  own  valuation. 

At  home,  however,  M.  d'Aiglemont  was  modest.  In- 
stinctively he  felt  that  his  wife,  young  though  she  was,  was 
his  superior;  and  out  of  this  involuntary  respect  there 
grew  an  occult  power  which  the  Marquise  was  obliged  to 
wield  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  shake  off  the  burden.  She 
became  her  husband's  adviser,  the  director  of  his  actions 
and  his  fortunes.  It  was  an  unnatural  position  ;  she  felt 
it  as  something  of  a  humiliation,  a  source  of  pain  to  be 
buried  in  the  depths  of  her  heart.  From  the  first  her 
delicately  feminine  instinct  told  her  that  it  is  a  far  better 
thing  to  obey  a  man  of  talent  than  to  lead  a  fool  ;  and 
that  a  young  wife  compelled  to  act  and  think  like  a 
man  is  neither  man  nor  woman,  but  a  being  who  lays 
aside  all  the  charms  of  her  womanhood  along  with  its 
misfortunes,  yet  acquires  none  of  the  privileges  which 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


43 


our  laws  give  to  the  stronger  sex.  Beneath  the  surface 
her  life  was  a  bitter  mockery.  Was  she  not  compelled 
to  protect  her  protector,  to  worship  a  hollow  idol,  a  poor 
creature  who  flung  her  the  love  of  a  selfish  husband  as 
the  wages  of  her  continual  self-sacrifice  ;  who  saw 
nothing  in  her  but  the  woman  ;  and  who  either  did  not 
think  it  worth  while,  or  (wrong  quite  as  deep)  did  not 
think  at  all  of  troubling  himself  about  her  pleasures, 
of  inquiring  into  the  cause  of  her  low  spirits  and 
dwindling  health  ?  And  the  Marquis,  like  most  men 
who  chafe  under  a  wife's  superiority,  saved  his  self-love 
by  arguing  from  Julie's  physical  feebleness  a  correspond- 
ing lack  of  mental  power,  for  which  he  was  pleased  to 
pity  her  ;  and  he  would  cry  out  upon  fate  which  had 
given  him  a  sickly  girl  for  a  wife.  The  executioner 
posed,  in  fact,  as  the  victim. 

All  the  burdens  of  this  dreary  lot  fell  upon  the 
Marquise,  who  still  must  smile  upon  her  foolish  lord,  and 
deck  a  house  of  mourning  with  flowers,  and  make  a 
parade  of  happiness  in  a  countenance  wan  with  secret 
torture.  And  with  this  sense  of  responsibility  for  the 
honour  of  both,  with  the  magnificent  immolation  of 
self,  the  young  Marquise  unconsciously  acquired  a  wifely 
dignity,  a  consciousness  of  virtue  which  became  her 
safeguard  amid  many  dangers. 

Perhaps,  if  her  heart  were  sounded  to  the  very  depths, 
this  intimate  closely  hidden  wretchedness,  following  upon 
her  unthinking  girlish  first  love,  had  roused  in  her  an 
abhorrence  of  passion  ;  possibly  she  had  no  conception 
of  its  rapture,  nor  of  forbidden  but  frenzied  bliss  for 
which  some  women  will  renounce  all  the  laws  of 
prudence  and  the  principles  of  conduct  upon  which 
society  is  based.  She  put  from  her  like  a  dream  the 
thought  of  bliss  and  tender  harmony  of  love  promised 
by  Mme.  de  Listomère-Landon's  mature  experience,  and 
waited  resignedly  for  the  end  of  her  troubles  with  a  hope 
that  she  might  die  young. 


44 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


Her  health  had  declined  daily  since  her  return  from 
Touraine;  her  life  seemed  to  be  measured  to  her  in 
suffering;  yet  her  ill-health  was  graceful,  her  malady 
seemed  little  more  than  languor,  and  might  well  be  taken 
by  careless  eyes  for  a  fine  lady's  whim  of  invalidism. 

Her  doctors  had  condemned  her  to  keep  to  the  sofa, 
and  there  among  her  flowers  lay  the  Marquise,  fading 
as  they  faded.  She  was  not  strong  enough  to  walk,  nor 
to  bear  the  open  air,  and  only  went  out  in  a  closed 
carriage.  Yet  with  all  the  marvels  of  modern  luxury 
and  invention  about  her,  she  looked  more  like  an  indolent 
queen  than  an  invalid.  A  few  of  her  friends,  half  in 
love  perhaps  with  her  sad  plight  and  her  fragile  look, 
sure  of  finding  her  at  home,  and  speculating  no  doubt 
upon  her  future  restoration  to  health,  would  come  to 
bring  her  the  news  of  the  day,  and  kept  her  informed  of 
the  thousand  and  one  small  events  which  fill  life  in  Paris 
with  variety.  Her  melancholy,  deep  and  real  though  it 
was,  was  still  the  melancholy  of  a  woman  rich  in  many 
ways.  The  Marquise  d'Aiglemont  was  like  some  bright 
flower,  with  a  dark  insect  gnawing  at  its  root. 

Occasionally  she  went  into  society,  not  to  please  her- 
self, but  in  obedience  to  the  exigencies  of  the  position 
which  her  husband  aspired  to  take.  In  society  her 
beautiful  voice  and  the  perfection  of  her  singing  could 
always  gain  the  social  success  so  gratifying  to  a  young 
woman  ;  but  what  was  social  success  to  her,  who  drew 
nothing  from  it  for  her  heart  or  her  hopes  ?  Her 
husband  did  not  care  for  music.  And,  moreover,  she 
seldom  felt  at  her  ease  in  salons,  where  her  beauty 
attracted  homage  not  wholly  disinterested.  Her  position 
excited  a  sort  of  cruel  compassion,  a  morbid  curiosity. 
She  was  suffering  from  an  inflammatory  complaint  not 
infrequently  fatal,  for  which  our  nosology  as  yet  has 
found  no  name,  a  complaint  spoken  of  among  women  in 
confidential  whispers.  In  spite  of  the  silence  in  which 
her  life  was  spent,  the  cause  of  her  ill-health  was  no 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


45 


secret.  She  was  still  but  a  girl  in  spite  of  her  marriage  ; 
the  slightest  glance  threw  her  into  confusion.  In  her 
endeavour  not  to  blush,  she  was  always  laughing,  always 
apparently  in  high  spirits  ;  she  would  never  admit  that 
she  was  not  perfectly  well,  and  anticipated  questions  as 
to  her  health  by  shame-stricken  subterfuges. 

In  1817,  however,  an  event  took  place  which  did 
much  to  alleviate  Julie's  hitherto  deplorable  existence. 
A  daughter  was  born  to  her,  and  she  determined  to 
nurse  her  child  herself.  For  two  years  motherhood,  its 
all-absorbing  multiplicity  of  cares  and  anxious  joys, 
made  life  less  hard  for  her.  She  and  her  husband  lived 
necessarily  apart.  Her  physicians  predicted  improved 
health,  but  the  Marquise  herself  put  no  faith  in  these 
auguries  based  on  theory.  Perhaps,  like  many  a  one  for 
whom  life  has  lost  its  sweetness,  she  looked  forward  to 
death  as  a  happy  termination  of  the  drama. 

But  with  the  beginning  of  the  year  18 19  life  grew 
harder  than  ever.  Even  while  she  congratulated  herself 
upon  the  negai'  happiness  which  she  had  contrived  to 
win,  she  caught  a  terrifying  glimpse  of  yawning  depths 
below  it.  She  had  passed  by  degrees  out  of  her  husband's 
life.  Her  fine  tact  and  her  prudence  told  her  that  mis- 
fortune must  come,  and  that  not  singly,  of  this  cooling 
of  an  affection  already  lukewarm  and  wholly  selfish. 
Sure  though  she  was  of  her  ascendency  over  Victor,  and 
certain  as  she  felt  of  his  unalterable  esteem,  she  dreaded 
the  influence  of  unbridled  passions  upon  a  head  so  empty, 
so  full  of  rash  self-conceit. 

Julie's  friends  often  found  her  absorbed  in  prolonged 
musings  ;  the  less  clairvoyant  among  them  would  jest- 
ingly ask  her  what  she  was  thinking  about,  as  if  a  young 
wife  would  think  of  nothing  but  frivolity,  as  if  there 
were  not  almost  always  a  depth  of  seriousness  in  a 
mother's  thoughts.  Unhappiness,  like  great  happiness, 
induces  dreaming.  Sometimes  as  Julie  played  with  her 
little  Hélène,  she  would  gaze  darkly  at  her,  giving  no 


46  A  Woman  of 

reply  to  the  childish  questions  in  which  a  mother 
delights,  questioning  the  present  and  the  future  as  to 
the  destiny  of  this  little  one.  Then  some  sudden 
recollection  would  bring  back  the  scene  of  the  review  at 
the  Tuileries  and  fill  her  eyes  with  tears.  Her  father's 
prophetic  warnings  rang  in  her  ears,  and  conscience 
reproached  her  that  she  had  not  recognised  its  wisdom. 
Her  troubles  had  all  come  of  her  own  wayward  folly, 
and  often  she  knew  not  which  among  so  many  was  the 
hardest  to  bear.  The  sweet  treasures  of  her  soul  were 
unheeded,  and  not  only  so,  she  could  never  succeed  in 
making  her  husband  understand  her,  even  in  the  com- 
monest everyday  things.  Just  as  the  power  to  love 
developed  and  grew  strong  and  active,  a  legitimate 
channel  for  the  affections  of  her  nature  was  denied  her, 
and  wedded  love  was  extinguished  in  grave  physical  and 
mental  sufferings.  Add  to  this  that  she  now  felt  for 
her  husband  that  pity  closely  bordering  upon  contempt, 
which  withers  all  affection  at  last.  Even  if  she  had  not 
learned  from  conversations  with  some  of  her  friends,  from 
examples  in  life,  from  sundry  occurrences  in  the  great 
world,  that  love  can  bring  ineffable  bliss,  her  own 
wounds  would  have  taught  her  to  divine  the  pure  and 
deep  happiness  which  binds  two  kindred  souls  each  to 
each. 

In  the  picture  which  her  memory  traced  of  the  past, 
Arthur's  frank  face  stood  out  daily  nobler  and  purer  ;  it 
was  but  a  flash,  for  upon  that  recollection  she  dared  not 
dwell.  The  young  Englishman's  shy,  silent  love  for 
her  was  the  one  event  since  her  marriage  which  had  left 
a  lingering  sweetness  in  her  darkened  and  lonely  heart. 
It  may  be  that  all  the  blighted  hopes,  all  the  frustrated 
longings  which  gradually  clouded  Julie's  mind,  gathered, 
by  a  not  unnatural  trick  of  imagination,  about  this  man 
— whose  manners,  sentiments,  and  character  seemed  to 
have  so  much  in  common  with  her  own.  This  idea  still 
presented  itself  to  her  mind  fitfully  and  vaguely,  like  a 


Thirty 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


47 


dream  ;  yet  from  that  dream,  which  always  ended  in  a 
sigh,  Julie  awoke  to  greater  wretchedness,  to  keener 
consciousness  of  the  latent  anguish  brooding  beneath 
her  imaginary  bliss. 

Occasionally  her  self-pity  took  wilder  and  more  daring 
flights.  She  determined  to  have  happiness  at  any  cost  ; 
but  still  more  often  she  lay  a  helpless  victim  of  an 
indescribable  numbing  stupor,  the  words  she  heard  had 
no  meaning  to  her,  or  the  thoughts  which  arose  in  her 
mind  were  so  vague  and  indistinct  that  she  could  not 
find  language  to  express  them.  Balked  of  the  wishes  of 
her  heart,  realities  jarred  harshly  upon  her  girlish  dreams 
of  life,  but  she  was  obliged  to  devour  her  tears.  To  whom 
could  she  make  complaint  ?  Of  whom  be  understood  ? 
She  possessed,  moreover,  that  highest  degree  of  woman's 
sensitive  pride,  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  feeling  which 
silences  useless  complainings  and  declines  to  use  an 
advantage  to  gain  a  triumph  which  can  only  humiliate 
both  victor  and  vanquished. 

Julie  tried  to  endow  M.  d'Aiglemont  with  her  own  . 
abilities  and  virtues,  flattering  herself  that  thus  she  might 
enjoy  the  happiness  lacking  in  her  lot.  All  her  woman's 
ingenuity  and  tact  was  employed  in  making  the  best  of 
the  situation  ;  pure  waste  of  pains  unsuspected  by  him, 
whom  she  thus  strengthened  in  his  despotism.  There 
were  moments  when  misery  became  an  intoxication,  ex- 
pelling all  ideas,  all  self-control  ;  but,  fortunately,  sincere 
piety  always  brought  her  back  to  one  supreme  hope;  she 
found  a  refuge  in  the  belief  in  a  future  life,  a  wonderful 
thought  which  enabled  her  to  take  up  her  painful  task 
afresh.  No  elation  of  victory  followed  those  terrible 
inward  battles  and  throes  of  anguish  ;  no  one  knew 
of  those  long  hours  of  sadness  ;  her  haggard  glances 
met  no  response  from  human  eyes,  and  during  the  brief 
moments  snatched  by  chance  for  weeping,  her  bitter 
tears  fell  unheeded  and  in  solitude. 

One  evening  in  January  1820,  the  Marquise  became 


48 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


aware  of  the  full  gravity  of  a  crisis,  gradually  brought  on 
by  force  of  circumstances.  When  a  husband  and  wife 
know  each  other  thoroughly,  and  their  relation  has  long 
been  a  matter  of  use  and  wont,  when  the  wife  has 
learned  to  interpret  every  slightest  sign,  when  her  quick 
insight  discerns  thoughts  and  facts  which  her  husband 
keeps  from  her,  a  chance  word,  or  a  remark  so  care- 
lessly let  fall  in  the  first  instance,  seems,  upon  subsequent 
reflection,  like  the  swift  breaking  out  of  light.  A  wife 
not  seldom  suddenly  awakes  upon  the  brink  of  a  precipice 
or  in  the  depths  of  the  abyss  ;  and  thus  it  was  with  the 
Marquise.  She  was  feeling  glad  to  have  been  left  to 
herself  for  some  days,  when  the  real  reason  of  her 
solitude  flashed  upon  her.  Her  husband,  whether  fickle 
and  tired  of  her,  or  generous  and  full  of  pity  for  her,  was 
hers  no  longer. 

In  the  moment  of  that  discovery  she  forgot  herself,  her 
sacrifices,  all  that  she  had  passed  through,  she  remembered 
only  that  she  was  a  mother.  Looking  forward,  she 
thought  of  her  daughter's  fortune,  of  the  future  welfare 
of  the  one  creature  through  whom  some  gleams  of 
happiness  came  to  her,  of  her  Hélène,  the  only  possession 
which  bound  her  to  life. 

Then  Julie  wished  to  live  to  save  her  child  from  a 
stepmother's  terrible  thraldom,  which  might  crush  her 
darling's  life.  Upon  this  new  vision  of  threatened  possi- 
bilities followed  one  of  those  paroxysms  of  thought  at 
fever-heat  which  consume  whole  years  of  life. 

Henceforward  husband  and  wife  were  doomed  to  be 
separated  by  a  whole  world  of  thought,  and  all  the 
weight  of  that  world  she  must  bear  alone.  Hitherto  she 
had  felt  sure  that  Victor  loved  her,  in  so  far  as  he  could 
be  said  to  love  ;  she  had  been  the  slave  of  pleasures  which 
she  did  not  share  ;  to-day  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  she  purchased  his  contentment  with  her  tears  was 
hers  no  longer.  She  was  alone  in  the  world,  nothing 
was  left  to  her  now  but  a  choice  of  evils.    In  the  calm 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


49 


stillness  of  the  night  her  despondency  drained  her  of  all 
her  strength.  She  rose  from  her  sofa  beside  the  dying 
fire,  and  stood  in  the  lamplight  gazing,  dry-eyed,  at  her 
child,  when  M.  d'Aiglemont  came  in.  He  was  in  high 
spirits.  Julie  called  to  him  to  admire  Hélène  as  she  lay 
asleep,  but  he  met  his  wife's  enthusiasm  with  a  common- 
place— 

i  All  children  are  nice  at  that  age.' 

He  closed  the  curtains  about  the  cot  after  a  careless 
kiss  on  the  child's  forehead.  Then  he  turned  his  eyes 
on  Julie,  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  to  sit  beside  him 
on  the  sofa,  where  she  had  been  sitting  with  such  dark 
thoughts  surging  up  in  her  mind. 

c  You  are  looking  very  handsome  to-night,  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont,'  he  exclaimed,  with  the  gaiety  intolerable  to 
the  Marquise,  who  knew  its  emptiness  so  well. 

*  Where  have  you  spent  the  evening  ?  '  she  asked,  with 
a  pretence  of  complete  indifference. 

c  At  Mme.  de  Sérizy's.' 

He  had  taken  up  a  fire-screen,  and  was  looking 
intently  at  the  gauze.  He  had  not  noticed  the  traces 
of  tears  on  his  wife's  face.  Julie  shuddered.  Words 
could  not  express  the  overflowing  torrent  of  thoughts 
which  must  be  forced  down  into  inner  depths. 

i  Mme.  de  Sérizy  is  giving  a  concert  on  Monday,  and 
is  dying  for  you  to  go.  You  have  not  been  anywhere 
for  some  time  past,  and  that  is  enough  to  set  her  longing 
to  see  you  at  her  house.  She  is  a  good-natured  woman, 
and  very  fond  of  you.  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  go  ; 
I  all  but  promised  that  you  should  9 

<  I  will  go.' 

There  was  something  so  penetrating,  so  significant  in 
the  tones  of  Julie's  voice,  in  her  accent,  in  the  glance 
that  went  with  the  words,  that  Victor,  startled  out  of 
his  indifference,  stared  at  his  wife  in  astonishment. 

That  was  all.  Julie  had  guessed  that  it  was  Mme. 
de  Sérizy  who  had  stolen  her  husband's  heart  from  her. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


Her  brooding  despair  benumbed  her.  She  appeared  to 
be  deeply  interested  in  the  fire.  Victor  meanwhile  still 
played  with  the  fire-screen.  He  looked  bored,  like  a 
man  who  has  enjoyed  himself  elsewhere,  and  brought 
home  the  consequent  lassitude.  He  yawned  once  or 
twice,  then  he  took  up  a  candle  in  one  hand,  and  with 
the  other  languidly  sought  his  wife's  neck  for  the  usual 
embrace  ;  but  Julie  stooped  and  received  the  good-night 
kiss  upon  her  forehead  ;  the  formal,  loveless  grimace 
seemed  hateful  to  her  at  that  moment. 

As  soon  as  the  door  closed  upon  Victor,  his  wife  sank 
into  a  seat.  Her  limbs  tottered  beneath  her,  she  burst 
into  tears.  None  but  those  who  have  endured  the 
torture  of  some  such  scene  can  fully  understand  the 
anguish  that  it  means,  or  divine  the  horror  of  the  long- 
drawn  tragedy  arising  out  of  it. 

Those  simple,  foolish  words,  the  silence  that  followed 
between  the  husband  and  wife,  the  Marquis's  gesture 
and  expression,  the  way  in  which  he  sat  before  the  fire, 
his  attitude  as  he  made  that  futile  attempt  to  put  a  kiss 
on  his  wife's  throat, — all  these  things  made  up  a  dark 
hour  for  Julie,  and  the  catastrophe  of  the  drama  of  her 
sad  and  lonely  life.  In  her  madness  she  knelt  down 
before  the  sofa,  burying  her  face  in  it  to  shut  out 
everything  from  sight,  and  prayed  to  Heaven,  putting 
a  new  significance  into  the  words  of  the  evening  prayer, 
till  it  became  a  cry  from  the  depths  of  her  own  soul, 
which  would  have  gone  to  her  husband's  heart  if  he  had 
heard  it. 

The  following  week  she  spent  in  deep  thought  for  her 
future,  utterly  overwhelmed  by  this  new  trouble.  She 
made  a  study  of  it,  trying  to  discover  a  way  to  regain 
her  ascendency  over  the  Marquis,  scheming  how  to  live 
long  enough  to  watch  over  her  daughter's  happiness,  yet 
to  live  true  to  her  own  heart.  Then  she  made  up  her 
mind.  She  would  struggle  with  her  rival.  She  would 
shine  once  more  in  society.    She  would  feign  the  love 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


5« 


which  she  could  no  longer  feel,  she  would  captivate  her 
husband's  fancy  ;  and  when  she  had  lured  him  into  her 
power,  she  would  coquet  with  him  like  a  capricious 
mistress  who  takes  delight  in  tormenting  a  lover.  This 
hateful  strategy  was  the  only  possible  way  out  of  her 
troubles.  In  this  way  she  would  become  mistress  of  the 
situation  ;  she  would  prescribe  her  own  sufferings  at 
her  good  pleasure,  and  reduce  them  by  enslaving  her 
husband,  and  bringing  him  under  a  tyrannous  yoke. 
She  felt  not  the  slightest  remorse  for  the  hard  life  which 
he  should  lead.  At  a  bound  she  reached  cold,  calculating 
indifference — for  her  daughter's  sake.  She  had  gained  a 
sudden  insight  into  the  treacherous,  lying  arts  of  degraded 
women  ->  the  wiles  of  coquetry,  the  revolting  cunning 
which  arouses  such  profound  hatred  in  men  at  the  mere 
suspicion  of  innate  corruption  in  a  woman. 

Julie's  feminine  vanity,  her  interests,  and  a  vague 
desire  to  inflict  punishment,  all  wrought  unconsciously 
with  the  mother's  love  within  her  to  force  her  into  a 
path  where  new  sufferings  awaited  her.  But  her  nature 
was  too  noble,  her  mind  too  fastidious,  and,  above  all 
things,  too  open,  to  be  the  accomplice  of  these  frauds 
for  very  long.  Accustomed  as  she  was  to  self-scrutiny, 
at  the  first  step  in  vice — for  vice  it  was — the  cry  of 
conscience  must  inevitably  drown  the  clamour  of  the 
passions  and  of  selfishness.  Indeed,  in  a  young  wife 
whose  heart  is  still  pure,  whose  love  has  never  been 
mated,  the  very  sentiment  of  motherhood  is  overpowered 
by  modesty.  Modesty  ;  is  not  all  womanhood  summed 
up  in  that  ?  But  just  now  Julie  would  not  see  any 
danger,  anything  wrong,  in  her  new  life. 

She  went  to  Mme.  de  Sérizy's  concert.  Her  rival  had 
expected  to  see  a  pallid,  drooping  woman.  The  Mar- 
quise wore  rouge,  and  appeared  in  all  the  splendour  of  a 
toilet  which  enhanced  her  beauty. 

Mme.  de  Sérizy  was  one  of  those  women  who  claim 
to  exercise  a  sort  of  sway  over  fashions  and  society  in 


5* 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


Paris  ;  she  issued  her  decrees,  saw  them  received  in  her 
own  circle,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  all  the  world 
obeyed  them.  She  aspired  to  epigram,  she  set  up  for  an 
authority  in  matters  of  taste.  Literature,  politics,  men 
and  women,  all  alike  were  submitted  to  her  censorship, 
and  the  lady  herself  appeared  to  defy  the  censorship  of 
others.  Her  house  was  in  every  respect  a  model  of  good 
taste. 

Julie  triumphed  over  the  Countess  in  her  own  salon, 
filled  as  it  was  with  beautiful  women  and  women  of 
fashion.  Julie's  liveliness  and  sparkling  wit  gathered  all 
the  most  distinguished  men  in  the  rooms  about  her. 
Her  costume  was  faultless,  for  the  despair  of  the  women, 
who  one  and  all  envied  her  the  fashion  of  her  dress,  and 
attributed  the  moulded  outline  of  her  bodice  to  the 
genius  of  some  unknown  dressmaker,  for  women  would 
rather  believe  in  miracles  worked  by  the  science  of 
chiffons  than  in  the  grace  and  perfection  of  the  form 
beneath. 

When  Julie  went  to  the  piano  to  sing  Desdemona's 
song,  the  men  in  the  rooms  flocked  about  her  to  hear 
the  celebrated  voice  so  long  mute,  and  there  was  a  deep 
silence.  The  Marquise  saw  the  heads  clustered  thickly 
in  the  doorways,  saw  all  eyes  turned  upon  her,  and  a 
sharp  thrill  of  excitement  quivered  through  her.  She 
looked  for  her  husband,  gave  him  a  coquettish  side- 
glance,  and  it  pleased  her  to  see  that  his  vanity  was 
gratified  to  no  small  degree.  In  the  joy  of  triumph  she 
sang  the  first  part  of  Al  piu  salice.  Her  audience  was 
enraptured.  Never  had  Malibran  nor  Pasta  sung  with 
expression  and  intonation  so  perfect.  But  at  the 
beginning  of  the  second  part  she  glanced  over  the 
listening  groups  and  saw — Arthur.  He  never  took  his 
eyes  from  her  face.  A  quick  shudder  thrilled  through 
her,  and  her  voice  faltered.  Up  hurried  Mme.  de  Sérizy 
from  her  place. 

<  What  is  it,  dear  ?    Oh  !  poor  little  thing  !  she  is  in 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


53 


such  weak  health  ;  I  was  so  afraid  when  I  saw  her 
begin  a  piece  so  far  beyond  her  strength.' 

The  song  was  interrupted.  Julie  was  vexed.  She 
had  not  courage  to  sing  any  longer,  and  submitted 
to  her  rival's  treacherous  sympathy.  There  was  a 
whisper  among  the  women.  The  incident  led  to  dis- 
cussions ;  they  guessed  that  the  struggle  had  begun 
between  the  Marquise  and  Mme.  de  Sérizy,  and  their 
tongues  did  not  spare  the  latter. 

Julie's  strange,  perturbing  presentiments  were  suddenly 
realised.  Through  her  preoccupation  with  Arthur  she 
had  loved  to  imagine  that  with  that  gentle,  refined  face 
he  must  remain  faithful  to  his  first  love.  There  were 
times  when  she  felt  proud  that  this  ideal,  pure,  and 
passionate  young  love  should  have  been  hers  ;  the  passion 
of  the  young  lover  whose  thoughts  are  all  for  her  to 
whom  he  dedicates  every  moment  of  his  life,  who  blushes 
as  a  woman  blushes,  thinks  as  a  woman  might  think, 
forgetting  ambition,  fame,  and  fortune  in  devotion  to  his 
love, — she  need  never  fear  a  rival.  All  these  things  she 
had  fondly  and  idly  dreamed  of  Arthur  ;  now  all  at  once 
it  seemed  to  her  that  her  dream  had  come  true.  In  the 
young  Englishman's  half-feminine  face  she  read  the  same 
deep  thoughts,  the  same  pensive  melancholy,  the  same 
passive  acquiescence  in  a  painful  lot,  and  an  endurance 
like  her  own.  She  saw  herself  in  him.  Trouble  and 
sadness  are  the  most  eloquent  of  love's  interpreters,  and 
response  is  marvellously  swift  between  two  suffering 
creatures,  for  in  them  the  powers  of  intuition  and  of 
assimilation  of  facts  and  ideas  are  well  nigh  unerring  and 
perfect.  So  with  the  violence  of  the  shock  the  Mar- 
quise's eyes  were  opened  to  the  whole  extent  of  the 
future  danger.  She  was  only  too  glad  to  find  a  pretext 
for  her  nervousness  in  her  chronic  ill-health,  and  willingly 
submitted  to  be  overwhelmed  by  Mme.  de  Sérizy's 
insidious  compassion. 

That  incident  of  the  song  caused  talk  and  discussion 


54 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


which  differed  with  the  various  groups.  Some  pitied 
Julie's  fate,  and  regretted  that  such  a  remarkable  woman 
was  lost  to  society;  others  fell  to  wondering  what  the 
cause  of  her  ill-health  and  seclusion  could  be. 

1  Well,  now,  my  dear  Ronquerolles,'  said  the  Marquis, 
addressing  Mme.  de  Sérizy's  brother,  c  vou  used  to  envy 
me  my  good  fortune,  and  you  used  to  blame  me  for  my 
infidelities.  Pshaw,  you  would  not  find  much  to  envy 
in  my  lot  if,  like  me,  you  had  a  pretty  wife  so  fragile 
that  for  the  past  two  years  you  might  not  so  much  as 
kiss  her  hand  for  fear  of  damaging  her.  Do  not  you 
encumber  yourself  with  one  of  these  fragile  ornaments, 
onlv  fit  to  put  in  a  glass  case,  so  brittle  and  so  costly  that 
you  are  always  obliged  to  be  careful  of  them.  Thev  tell 
me  that  you  are  afraid  of  snow  or  wTet  for  that  fine  horse 
of  yours  ;  how  often  do  you  ride  him  ?  That  is  just  my 
own  case.  It  is  true  that  my  wife  gives  me  no  ground 
for  jealousy,  but  my  marriage  is  a  purely  ornamental 
business  ;  if  you  think  that  I  am  a  married  man,  you  are 
grossly  mistaken.  So  there  is  some  excuse  for  my 
unfaithfulness.  I  should  dearlv  like  to  know  what  vou 
gentlemen  who  laugh  at  me  would  do  in  my  place. 
Not  many  men  would  be  so  considerate  as  I  am.  I  am 
sure'  (here  he  lowered  his  voice)  6  that  Mme.  d' Aigle- 
mont  suspects  nothing.  And  then,  of  course,  I  have  no 
right  to  complain  at  all  ;  I  am  very  well  off.  Only 
there  is  nothing  more  trying  for  a  man  who  feels  things 
than  the  sight  of  suffering  in  a  poor  creature  to  whom 
you  are  attached  ! 

6  You  must  have  a  very  sensitive  nature,  then,'  said 
M.  de  Ronquerolles,  c  for  you  are  not  often  at  home.' 

Laughter  followed  on  the  friendly  epigram  ;  but  Arthur, 
who  made  one  of  the  group,  maintained  a  frigid  imper- 
turbabilitv  in  his  qualityof  an  English  gentleman  who  takes 
gravity  for  the  very  basis  of  his  being.  D'Aiglemont's 
eccentric  confidence,  no  doubt,  had  kindled  some  kind  of 
hope  in  Arthur,  for  he  stood  patiently  awaiting  an  oppor- 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


tunity  of  a  word  with  the  Marquis.  He  had  not  to 
wait  long. 

i  My  Lord  Marquis,'  he  said,  CI  am  unspeakably  pained 
to  see  the  state  of  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  health.  I  do  not 
think  that  you  would  talk  jestingly  about  it  if  you  knew 
that  unless  she  adopts  a  certain  course  of  treatment  she 
must  die  miserably.  If  I  use  this  language  to  you,  it  is 
because  I  am  in  a  manner  justified  in  using  it,  for  I  am 
quite  certain  that  I  can  save  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  life 
and  restore  her  to  health  and  happiness.  It  is  odd,  no 
doubt,  that  a  man  of  my  rank  should  be  a  physician,  yet 
nevertheless  chance  determined  that  I  should  study 
medicine.  I  find  life  dull  enough  here,'  he  continued, 
affecting  a  cold  selfishness  to  gain  his  ends;  cit  makes 
no  difference  to  me  whether  I  spend  my  time  and 
travel  for  the  benefit  of  a  suffering  fellow-creature,  or 
waste  it  in  Paris  on  some  nonsense  or  other.  It  is  very, 
very  seldom  that  a  cure  is  completed  in  these  complaints, 
for  they  require  constant  care,  time,  and  patience,  and, 
above  all  things,  money.  Travel  is  needed,  and  a  punc- 
tilious following  out  of  prescriptions,  by  no  means  un- 
pleasant, and  varied  daily.  Two  gentlemen9  (laying  a  stress 
on  the  word  in  its  English  sense)  ccan  understand  each 
other.  I  give  you  warning  that  if  you  accept  my  pro- 
posal, you  shall  be  a  judge  of  my  conduct  at  every 
moment.  I  will  do  nothing  without  consulting  you, 
without  your  superintendence,  and  I  will  answer  for  the 
success  of  my  method  if  you  will  consent  to  follow  it. 
Yes,  unless  you  wish  to  be  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  husband 
no  longer,  and  that  before  long,'  he  added  in  the  Mar- 
quis's ear. 

The  Marquis  laughed.  c  One  thing  is  certain — that 
only  an  Englishman  could  make  me  such  an  extraordinary 
proposal,'  he  said.  c  Permit  me  to  leave  it  unaccepted 
and  unrejected.  I  will  think  it  over  ;  and  my  wife  must 
be  consulted  first  in  any  case.' 

Julie  had  returned  to  the  piano.    This  time  she  sang 


56 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


a  song  from  Semiramide^  Son  reglna^  son  guerrier ay  and 
the  whole  room  applauded,  a  stifled  outburst  of  well- 
bred  acclamation  which  proved  that  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain  had  been  roused  to  enthusiasm  by  her 
singing. 

The  evening  was  over.  D'Aiglemont  brought  his 
wife  home,  and  Julie  saw  with  uneasy  satisfaction  that 
her  first  attempt  had  been  at  once  successful.  Her 
husband  had  been  roused  out  of  indifference  by  the  part 
which  she  had  played,  and  now  he  meant  to  honour  her 
with  such  a  passing  fancy  as  he  might  bestow  upon  some 
opera  nymph.  It  amused  Julie  that  she,  a  virtuous 
married  woman,  should  be  treated  thus.  She  tried  to  play 
with  her  power,  but  at  the  outset  her  kindness  broke 
down  once  more,  and  she  received  the  most  terrible  of 
all  the  lessons  held  in  store  for  her  by  fate. 

Between  two  and  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  Julie 
sat  up,  sombre  and  moody,  beside  her  sleeping  husband, 
in  the  room  dimly  lighted  by  the  flickering  lamp.  Deep 
silence  prevailed.  Her  agony  of  remorse  had  lasted  near 
an  hour;  how  bitter  her  tears  had  been  none  perhaps 
can  realise  save  women  who  have  known  such  an  ex- 
perience as  hers.  Only  such  natures  as  Julie's  can 
feel  her  loathing  for  a  calculated  caress,  the  horror  of  a 
loveless  kiss,  of  the  heart's  apostasy  followed  by  dolorous 
prostitution.  She  despised  herself  ;  she  cursed  marriage. 
She  could  have  longed  for  death  ;  perhaps  if  it  had  not 
been  for  a  cry  from  her  child,  she  would  have  sprung 
from  the  window  and  dashed  herself  upon  the  pavement. 
M.  d'Aiglemont  slept  on  peacefully  at  her  side  ;  his  wife's 
hot  dropping  tears  did  not  waken  him. 

But  next  morning  Julie  could  be  gay.  She  made  a 
great  effort  to  look  happy,  to  hide,  not  her  melancholy, 
as  heretofore,  but  an  insuperable  loathing.  From  that 
day  she  no  longer  regarded  herself  as  a  blameless  wife. 
Had  she  not  been  false  to  herself  ?  Why  should  she  not 
play  a  double  part  in  the  future,  and  display  astounding 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


57 


depths  of  cunning  in  deceiving  her  husband  ?  In  her 
there  lay  a  hitherto  undiscovered  latent  depravity, 
lacking  only  opportunity,  and  her  marriage  was  the 
cause. 

Even  now  she  had  asked  herself  why  she  should 
struggle  with  love,  when,  with  her  heart  and  her  whole 
nature  in  revolt,  she  gave  herself  to  the  husband  whom 
she  loved  no  longer.  Perhaps,  who  knows  ?  some 
piece  of  fallacious  reasoning,  some  bit  of  special  pleading, 
lies  at  the  root  of  all  sins,  of  all  crimes.  How  shall 
society  exist  unless  every  individual  of  which  it  is  com- 
posed will  make  the  necessary  sacrifices  of  inclination 
demanded  by  its  laws  ?  If  you  accept  the  benefits  of 
civilised  society,  do  you  not  by  implication  engage  to 
observe  the  conditions,  the  conditions  of  its  very  exist- 
ence ?  And  yet,  starving  wretches,  compelled  to  respect 
the  laws  of  property,  are  not  less  to  be  pitied  than 
women  whose  natural  instincts  and  sensitiveness  are 
turned  to  so  many  avenues  of  pain. 

A  few  days  after  that  scene  of  which  the  secret  lay 
buried  in  the  midnight  couch,  d'Aiglemont  introduced 
Lord  Grenville.  Julie  gave  the  guest  a  stiffly  polite 
reception,  which  did  credit  to  her  powers  of  dissimu- 
lation. Resolutely  she  silenced  her  heart,  veiled  her 
eyes,  steadied  her  voice,  and  so  kept  her  future  in  her 
own  hands.  Then,  when  by  these  devices,  this  innate 
woman-craft,  as  it  may  be  called,  she  had  discovered  the 
full  extent  of  the  love  which  she  inspired,  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont  welcomed  the  hope  of  a  speedy  cure,  and 
no  longer  opposed  her  husband,  who  pressed  her  to 
accept  the  young  doctor's  offer.  Yet  she  declined  to 
trust  herself  with  Lord  Grenville  until,  after  some 
further  study  of  his  words  and  manner,  she  could  feel 
certain  that  he  had  sufficient  generosity  to  endure  his 
pain  in  silence.  She  had  absolute  power  over  him,  and 
she  had  begun  to  abuse  that  power  already.  Was  she 
not  a  woman  ? 


5« 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


Mon tcon tour  is  an  old  manor-house  built  upon  the 
sandy  cliffs  above  the  Loire,  not  far  from  the  bridge 
where  Julie's  journey  was  interrupted  in  1 8 14.  It  is  a 
picturesque,  white  chateau,  with  turrets  covered  with 
fine  stone  carving  like  Mechlin  lace  ;  a  château  such 
as  you  often  see  in  Touraine,  spick  and  span,  ivy  clad, 
standing  among  its  groves  of  mulberry  trees  and  vine- 
yards, with  its  hollow  walks,  its  stone  balustrades,  and 
cellars  mined  in  the  rock  escarpments  mirrored  in 
the  Loire.  The  roofs  of  Montcontour  gleam  in  the 
sun  ;  the  whole  land  glows  in  the  burning  heat.  Traces 
of  the  romantic  charm  of  Spain  and  the  south  hover 
about  the  enchanting  spot.  The  breeze  brings  the 
scent  of  bell  flowers  and  golden  broom,  the  air  is  soft, 
all  about  you  lies  a  sunny  land,  a  land  which  casts  its 
dreamy  spell  over  your  soul,  a  land  of  languor  and  of 
soft  desire,  a  fair,  sweet-scented  country,  where  pain  is 
lulled  to  sleep  and  passion  wakes.  No  heart  is  cold  for 
long  beneath  its  clear  sky,  beside  its  sparkling  waters. 
One  ambition  dies  after  another,  and  you  sink  into  a 
serene  content  and  repose,  as  the  sun  sinks  at  the  end  of 
the  day  swathed  about  with  purple  and  azure. 

One  warm  August  evening  in  1821  two  people  were 
climbing  the  paths  cut  in  the  crags  above  the  chateau, 
doubtless  for  the  sake  of  the  view  from  the  heights 
above.  The  two  were  Julie  and  Lord  Grenville,  but 
this  Julie  seemed  to  be  a  new  creature.  The  unmis- 
takable colour  of  health  glowed  in  her  face.  Over- 
flowing vitality  had  brought  a  light  into  her  eyes,  which 
sparkled  through  a  moist  film  with  that  liquid  bright- 
ness which  gives  such  irresistible  charm  to  the  eyes  of 
children.  She  was  radiant  with  smiles  ;  she  felt  the  joy 
of  living  and  all  the  possibilities  of  life.  From  the  very 
way  in  which  she  lifted  her  little  feet,  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  no  suffering  trammelled  her  lightest  movements; 
there  was  no  heaviness  nor  languor  in  her  eyes,  her 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


59 


voice,  as  heretofore.  Under  the  white  silk  sunshade 
which  screened  her  from  the  hot  sunlight,  she  looked 
like  some  young  bride  beneath  her  veil,  or  a  maiden 
waiting  to  yield  to  the  magical  enchantments  of  Love. 

Arthur  led  her  with  a  lover's  care,  helping  her  up  the 
pathway  as  if  she  had  been  a  child,  finding  the  smoothest 
ways,  avoiding  the  stones  for  her,  bidding  her  see 
glimpses  of  distance,  or  some  flower  beside  the  path, 
always  with  the  unfailing  goodness,  the  same  delicate 
design  in  all  that  he  did,  the  intuitive  sense  of  this 
woman's  wellbeing  seemed  to  be  innate  in  him,  and 
as  much,  nay,  perhaps  more,  a  part  of  his  being  as  the 
pulse  of  his  own  life. 

The  patient  and  her  doctor  went  step  for  step. 
There  was  nothing  strange  for  them  in  a  sympathy 
which  seemed  to  have  existed  since  the  day  when  first 
they  walked  together.  One  will  swayed  them  both  ; 
they  stopped  as  their  senses  received  the  same  impression  ; 
every  word  and  every  glance  told  of  the  same  thought 
in  either  mind.  They  had  climbed  up  through  the 
vineyards,  and  now  they  turned  to  sit  on  one  of  the 
long  white  stones,  quarried  out  of  the  caves  in  the 
hillside;  but  Julie  stood  awhile  gazing  out  over  the 
landscape. 

(  What  a  beautiful  country  !  '  she  cried.  4  Let  us  put 
up  a  tent  and  live  here.  Victor,  Victor,  do  come  up 
here!' 

M.  d'Aiglemont  answered  by  a  halloo  from  below. 
He  did  not,  however,  hurry  himself,  merely  giving  his 
wife  a  glance  from  time  to  time  when  the  windings  of 
the  path  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  her.  Julie  breathed  the 
air  with  delight.  She  looked  up  at  Arthur,  giving  him 
one  of  those  subtle  glances  in  which  a  clever  woman 
can  put  the  whole  of  her  thought. 

4  Ah,  I  should  like  to  live  here  always,'  she  said. 
*  Would  it  be  possible  to  tire  of  this  beautiful  valley  ? — 
What  is  the  picturesque  river  called,  do  you  know  ?  ? 


6o 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


1  That  is  the  Cise.' 

cThe  Cise,'  she  repeated.  'And  all  this  country 
below,  before  us  ? 1 

4  Those  are  the  low  hills  above  the  Cher/ 

1  And  away  to  the  right  ?  Ah,  that  is  Tours.  Only 
see  how  fine  the  cathedral  towers  look  in  the  distance.' 

She  was  silent,  and  let  fall  the  hand  which  she  had 
stretched  out  towards  the  view  upon  Arthur's.  Both 
admired  the  wide  landscape  made  up  of  so  much  blended 
beauty.  Neither  of  them  spoke.  The  murmuring 
voice  of  the  river,  the  pure  air,  and  the  cloudless  heaven 
were  all  in  tune  with  their  thronging  thoughts  and 
their  youth  and  the  love  in  their  hearts. 

cOh!  mon  Dieu,  how  I  love  this  country!'  Julie 
continued,  with  growing  and  ingenuous  enthusiasm. 
c  You  lived  here  for  a  long  while,  did  you  not  ?  '  she 
added  after  a  pause. 

A  thrill  ran  through  Lord  Grenville  at  her  words. 

c  It  was  down  there,'  he  said,  in  a  melancholy  voice, 
indicating  as  he  spoke  a  cluster  of  walnut  trees  by  the 
roadside,  c  that  I,  a  prisoner,  saw  you  for  the  first 
time.' 

*  Yes,  but  even  at  that  time  I  felt  very  sad.  This 

country  looked  wild  to  me  then,  but  now  ■  She 

broke  off,  and  Lord  Grenville  did  not  dare  to  look  at 
her. 

c  All  this  pleasure  I  owe  to  you,'  Julie  began  at  last, 
after  a  long  silence.  c  Only  the  living  can  feel  the  joy 
of  life,  and  until  now  have  I  not  been  dead  to  it  all  ? 
You  have  given  me  more  than  health,  you  have  made 
me  feel  all  its  worth  ' 

Women  have  an  inimitable  talent  for  giving  utterance 
to  strong  feeling  in  colourless  words  ;  a  woman's 
eloquence  lies  in  tone  and  gesture,  manner  and  glance. 
Lord  Grenville  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  for  his  tears 
filled  his  eyes.  This  was  Julie's  first  word  of  thanks 
since  they  left  Paris  a  year  ago. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  61 

For  a  whole  year  he  had  watched  over  the  Marquise, 
putting  his  whole  self  into  the  task.  D'Aiglemont 
seconding  him,  he  had  taken  her  first  to  Aix,  then  to 
La  Rochelle,  to  be  near  the  sea.  From  moment  to 
moment  he  had  watched  the  changes  worked  in  Julie's 
shattered  constitution  by  his  wise  and  simple  prescrip- 
tions. He  had  cultivated  her  health  as  an  enthusiastic 
gardener  might  cultivate  a  rare  flower.  Yet,  to  all 
appearance,  the  Marquise  had  quietly  accepted  Arthur's 
skill  and  care  with  the  egoism  of  a  spoiled  Parisienne, 
or  like  a  courtesan  who  has  no  idea  of  the  cost  of  things, 
nor  of  the  worth  of  a  man,  and  judges  of  both  by  their 
comparative  usefulness  to  her. 

The  influence  of  places  upon  us  is  a  fact  worth  re- 
marking. If  melancholy  comes  over  us  by  the  margin 
of  a  great  water,  another  indelible  law  of  our  nature  so 
orders  it  that  the  mountains  exercise  a  purifying  influence 
upon  our  feelings,  and  among  the  hills  passion  gains  in 
depth  by  all  that  it  apparently  loses  in  vivacity.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  sight  of  the  wide  country  by  the  Loire, 
the  height  of  the  fair  sloping  hillside  on  which  the  lovers 
sat,  that  induced  the  calm  bliss  of  the  moment  when  the 
whole  extent  of  the  passion  that  lies  beneath  a  few  insig- 
nificant-sounding words  is  divined  for  the  first  time  with 
a  delicious  sense  of  happiness. 

Julie  had  scarcely  spoken  the  words  which  had  moved 
Lord  Grenville  so  deeply,  when  a  caressing  breeze 
ruffled  the  tree-tops  and  filled  the  air  with  coolness 
from  the  river  ;  a  few  clouds  crossed  the  sky,  and  the 
soft  cloud-shadows  brought  out  all  the  beauty  of  the  fair 
land  below. 

Julie  turned  away  her  head,  lest  Arthur  should  see  the 
tears  which  she  succeeded  in  repressing  ;  his  emotion  had 
spread  at  once  to  her.    She  dried  her  eyes,  but  she  dared 
j  not  raise  them  lest  he  should  read  the  excess  of  joy  in  a 
I  glance.    Her  woman's  instinct  told  her  that  during  this 
hour  of  danger  she  must  hide  her  love  in  the  depths  of  her 


6i 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


heart.  Yet  silence  might  prove  equally  dangerous,  and 
Julie  saw  that  Lord  Grenville  was  unable  to  utter  a  word. 
She  went  on,  therefore,  in  a  gentle  voice — 

c  You  are  touched  by  what  I  have  said.  Perhaps  such 
a  quick  outburst  of  feeling  is  the  way  in  which  a  gracious 
and  kind  nature  like  yours  reverses  a  mistaken  judg- 
ment. You  must  have  thought  me  ungrateful  when  I  was 
cold  and  reserved,  or  cynical  and  hard,  all  through  the 
journey  which,  fortunately,  is  very  near  its  end.  I 
should  not  have  been  worthy  of  your  care  if  I  had  been 
unable  to  appreciate  it.  I  have  forgotten  nothing. 
Alas  !  I  shall  forget  nothing,  not  the  anxious  way 
in  which  you  watched  over  me  as  a  mother  watches 
over  her  child,  nor,  and  above  all  else,  the  noble  confi- 
dence of  our  life  as  brother  and  sister,  the  delicacy  of 
your  conduct — winning  charms,  against  which  we 
women  are  defenceless.  My  lord,  it  is  out  of  my 
power  to  make  you  a  return  ' 

At  those  words  Julie  hastily  moved  further  away,  and 
Lord  Grenville  made  no  attempt  to  detain  her.  She 
went  to  a  rock  not  far  away,  and  there  sat  motionless. 
What  either  felt  remained  a  secret  known  to  each  alone  ; 
doubtless  they  wept  in  silence.  The  singing  of  the  birds 
about  them,  so  blithe,  so  overflowing  with  tenderness  at 
sunset  time,  could  only  increase  the  storm  of  passion 
which  had  driven  them  apart.  Nature  took  up  their 
story  for  them,  and  found  a  language  for  the  love  of 
which  they  did  not  dare  to  speak. 

'And  now,  my  lord,'  said  Julie,  and  she  came  and 
stood  before  Arthur  with  a  great  dignity,  which  allowed 
her  to  take  his  hand  in  hers.  c  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to 
hallow  and  purify  the  life  which  you  have  given  back  to 
me.  Here,  we  will  part.  I  know,'  she  added,  as  she 
saw  how  white  his  face  grew, 4 1  know  that  I  am  repay- 
ing you  for  your  devotion  by  requiring  of  you  a  sacrifice 
even  greater  than  any  which  you  have  hitherto  made  for 
me,  sacrifices  so  great  that  they  should  receive  some 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


63 


better  recompense  than  this.  .  .  .  But  it  must  be.  •  .  . 
You  must  not  stay  in  France.  By  laying  this  command 
upon  you,  do  I  not  give  you  rights  which  shall  be  held 
sacred  ?  '  she  added,  holding  his  hand  against  her  beating 
heart. 

c  Yes,'  said  Arthur,  and  he  rose. 

He  looked  in  the  direction  of  d'Aiglemont,  who  ap- 
peared on  the  opposite  side  of  one  of  the  hollow  walks 
with  the  child  in  his  arms.  He  had  scrambled  up  on  the 
balustrade  by  the  chateau  that  little  Hélène  might  jump 
down. 

'Julie,  I  will  say  not  a  word  of  my  love  ;  we  under- 
stand each  other  too  well.  Deeply  and  carefully  though 
I  have  hidden  the  pleasures  of  my  heart,  you  have  shared 
them  all.  I  feel  it,  I  know  it,  I  see  it.  And  now,  at 
this  moment,  as  I  receive  this  delicious  proof  of  the  con- 
stant sympathy  of  our  hearts,  I  must  go.  .  .  .  Cunning 
schemes  for  getting  rid  of  him  have  crossed  my  mind  too 
often  ;  the  temptation  might  be  irresistible  if  I  stayed 
with  you.' 

c  I  had  the  same  thought,'  she  said,  a  look  of  pained 
surprise  in  her  troubled  face. 

Yet  in  her  tone  and  involuntary  shudder  there  was 
such  virtue,  such  certainty  of  herself,  won  in  many  a  hard- 
fought  battle  with  a  love  that  spoke  in  Julie's  tones  and 
involuntary  gestures,  that  Lord  Grenville  stood  thrilled 
with  admiration  of  her.  The  mere  shadow  of  a  crime 
had  been  dispelled  from  that  clear  conscience.  The 
religious  sentiment  enthroned  on  the  fair  forehead  could 
not  but  drive  away  the  evil  thoughts  that  arise  unbidden, 
engendered  by  our  imperfect  nature,  thoughts  which 
make  us  aware  of  the  grandeur  and  the  perils  of  human 
destiny. 

c  And  then,'  she  said, 4 1  should  have  drawn  down  your 

scorn  upon  me,  and  I  should  have  been  saved,'  she 

added,  and  her  eyes  fell.  c  To  be  lowered  in  your  eyesy 
what  is  that  but  death  I* 


64 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


For  a  moment  the  two  heroic  lovers  were  silent,  chok- 
ing down  their  sorrow.  Good  or  ill,  it  seemed  that  their 
thoughts  were  loyally  one,  and  the  joys  in  the  depths  of 
their  heart  were  no  more  experiences  apart  than  the  pain 
which  they  strove  most  anxiously  to  hide. 

*  I  have  no  right  to  complain,'  she  said  after  a  while, 
4  my  misery  is  of  my  own  making,'  and  she  raised  her 
tear-filled  eyes  to  the  sky. 

*  Perhaps  you  don't  remember  it,  but  that  is  the  place 
where  we  met  each  other  for  the  first  time,'  shouted  the 
General  from  below,  and  he  waved  his  hand  towards  the 
distance.    c  There,  down  yonder,  near  those  poplars  ! 1 

The  Englishman  nodded  abruptly  by  way  of  answer. 

i  So  I  was  bound  to  die  young  and  to  know  no  happi- 
ness,' Julie  continued.  6  Yes,  do  not  think  that  I  live. 
Sorrow  is  just  as  fatal  as  the  dreadful  disease  which  you 
have  cured.  I  do  not  think  that  I  am  to  blame.  No. 
My  love  is  stronger  than  I  am,  and  eternal  ;  but  all  un- 
consciously it  grew  in  me  ;  and  I  will  not  be  guilty 
through  my  love.  Nevertheless,  though  I  shall  be 
faithful  to  my  conscience  as  a  wife,  to  my  duties  as  a 
mother,  I  will  be  no  less  faithful  to  the  instincts  of  my 
heart.  Hear  me,'  she  cried  in  an  unsteady  voice, 
c  henceforth  I  belong  to  him  no  longer.' 

By  a  gesture,  dreadful  to  see  in  its  undisguised  loathing, 
she  indicated  her  husband. 

'The  social  code  demands  that  I  should  make  his 
existence  happy,'  she  continued.  4 1  will  obey,  I  will  be 
his  servant,  my  devotion  to  him  shall  be  boundless  ;  but 
from  to-day  I  am  a  widow.  I  will  neither  be  a  prosti- 
tute in  my  own  eyes  nor  in  those  of  the  world.  If  I  do 
not  belong  to  M.  d'Aiglemont,  I  will  never  belong  to 
another.  You  shall  have  nothing,  nothing  save  this 
which  you  have  wrung  from  me.  This  is  the  doom 
which  I  have  passed  upon  myself,'  she  said,  looking 
proudly  at  him.  c  And  now,  know  this — if  you  give  way 
to  a  single  criminal  thought,  M.  d'Aiglemont's  widow 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


65 


will  enter  a  convent  in  Spain  or  Italy.  By  an  evil 
chance  we  have  spoken  of  our  love  ;  perhaps  that  con- 
fession was  bound  to  come  ;  but  our  hearts  must  never 
vibrate  again  like  this.  To-morrow  you  will  receive  a 
letter  from  England,  and  we  shall  part,  and  never  see  each 
other  again.' 

The  effort  had  exhausted  all  Julie's  strength.  She  felt 
her  knees  trembling,  and  a  feeling  of  deathly  cold  came 
over  her.  Obeying  a  woman's  instinct,  she  sat  down, 
lest  she  should  sink  into  Arthur's  arms. 

'  Julie  !  '  cried  Lord  Grenville. 

The  sharp  cry  rang  through  the  air  like  a  crack  of 
thunder.  Till  then  he  could  not  speak  ;  now,  all  the 
words  which  the  dumb  lover  could  not  utter  gathered 
themselves  in  that  heartrending  appeal. 

c  Well,  what  is  wrong  with  her  ?  '  asked  the  General, 
who  had  hurried  up  at  that  cry,  and  now  suddenly  con- 
fronted the  two. 

*  Nothing  serious,'  said  Julie,  with  that  wonderful 
self-possession  which  a  woman's  quick-wittedness  usually 
brings  to  her  aid  when  it  is  most  called  for.  4  The  chill, 
damp  air  under  the  walnut  tree  made  me  feel  quite  faint 
just  now,  and  that  must  have  alarmed  this  doctor  of 
mine.  Does  he  not  look  on  me  as  a  very  nearly  finished 
work  of  art  ?  He  was  startled,  I  suppose,  by  the  idea  of 
seeing  it  destroyed.'  With  ostentatious  coolness  she 
took  Lord  Grenville's  arm,  smiled  at  her  husband,  took 
a  last  look  at  the  landscape,  and  went  down  the  pathway, 
drawing  her  travelling  companion  with  her. 

'This  certainly  is  the  grandest  view  that  we  have 
seen,'  she  said  ;  c  I  shall  never  forget  it.  Just  look, 
Victor,  what  distance,  what  an  expanse  of  country,  and 
what  variety  in  it  !  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  this 
landscape.' 

Her  laughter  was  almost  hysterical,  but  to  her 
husband  it  sounded  natural.  She  sprang  gaily  down 
into  the  hollow  pathway  and  vanished. 


66 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


'What  ?  she  cried,  when  they  had  left  M.  d'Aigle- 
mont  far  behind.  c  So  soon  ?  Is  it  so  soon  ?  Another 
moment,  and  we  can  neither  of  us  be  ourselves  ;  we  shall 
never  be  ourselves  again,  our  life  is  over,  in  short  f 

s  Let  us  go  slowly,'  said  Lord  Grenville, '  the  carriages 
are  still  some  way  off,  and  if  we  may  put  words  into  our 
glances,  our  hearts  may  live  a  little  longer.' 

They  went  along  the  footpath  by  the  river  in  the  late 
evening  light,  almost  in  silence  ;  such  vague  words  as 
they  uttered,  low  as  the  murmur  of  the  Loire,  stirred 
their  souls  to  the  depths.  Just  as  the  sun  sank,  a  last 
red  gleam  from  the  sky  fell  over  them  ;  it  was  like  a 
mournful  symbol  of  their  ill-starred  love. 

The  General,  much  put  out  because  the  carriage  was 
not  at  the  spot  where  they  left  it,  followed  and  out- 
stripped the  pair  without  interrupting  their  converse. 
Lord  Grenville's  high-minded  and  delicate  behaviour 
throughout  the  journey  had  completely  dispelled  the 
Marquis's  suspicions.  For  some  time  past  he  had  left 
his  wife  in  freedom,  reposing  confidence  in  the  noble 
amateur's  Punic  faith.  Arthur  and  Julie  walked  on 
together  in  the  close  and  painful  communion  of  two 
hearts  laid  waste. 

So  short  a  while  ago  as  they  climbed  the  cliffs  at 
Moncontour,  there  had  been  a  vague  hope  in  either 
mind,  an  uneasy  joy  for  which  they  dared  not  account 
to  themselves  ;  but  now  as  they  came  along  the  pathway 
by  the  river,  they  pulled  down  the  frail  structure  of 
imaginings,  the  child's  card-castle,  on  which  neither  of 
them  had  dared  to  breathe.    That  hope  was  over. 

That  very  evening  Lord  Grenville  left  them.  His 
last  look  at  Julie  made  it  miserably  plain  that  since  the 
moment  when  sympathy  revealed  the  full  extent  of  a 
tyrannous  passion,  he  did  well  to  mistrust  himself. 

The  next  morning,  M.  d'Aiglemont  and  his  wife  took 
their  places  in  the  carriage  without  their  travelling  com- 
panion, and  were  whirled  swiftly  along  the  road  to  Blois. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  67 

The  Marquise  was  constantly  put  in  mind  of  the 
journey  made  in  18 14,  when  as  yet  she  knew  nothing 
of  love,  and  had  been  almost  ready  to  curse  it  for  its  per- 
sistency. Countless  forgotten  impressions  were  revived. 
The  heart  has  its  own  memory.  A  woman  who  cannot 
recollect  the  most  important  great  events  will  recollect 
through  a  lifetime  things  which  appealed  to  her  feel- 
ings ;  and  Julie  d'Aiglemont  found  all  the  most  trifling 
details  of  that  journey  laid  up  in  her  mind.  It  was 
pleasant  to  her  to  recall  its  little  incidents  as  they 
occurred  to  her  one  by  one  ;  there  were  points  in  the 
road  when  she  could  even  remember  the  thoughts  that 
passed  through  her  mind  when  she  saw  them  first. 

Victor  had  fallen  violently  in  love  with  his  wife  since 
she  had  recovered  the  freshness  of  her  youth  and  all  her 
beauty,  and  now  he  pressed  close  to  her  side  like  a  lover. 
Once  he  tried  to  put  his  arm  round  her,  but  she  gently 
disengaged  herself,  finding  some  excuse  or  other  for  evad- 
ing the  harmless  caress.  In  a  little  while  she  shrank  from 
the  close  contact  with  Victor,  the  sensation  of  warmth 
communicated  by  their  position.  She  tried  to  take  the 
unoccupied  place  opposite,  but  Victor  gallantly  resigned 
the  back  seat  to  her.  For  this  attention  she  thanked 
him  with  a  sigh,  whereupon  he  forgot  himself,  and  the 
Don  Juan  of  the  garrison  construed  his  wife's  melan- 
choly to  his  own  advantage,  so  that  at  the  end  of  the 
day  she  was  compelled  to  speak  with  a  firmness  which 
impressed  him. 

'You  have  all  but  killed  me,  dear,  once  already,  as 
you  know,'  said  she.  c  If  I  were  still  an  inexperienced 
girl,  I  might  begin  to  sacrifice  myself  afresh  ;  but  I  am 
a  mother,  I  have  a  daughter  to  bring  up,  and  I  owe  as 
much  to  her  as  to  you.  Let  us  resign  ourselves  to  a 
misfortune  which  affects  us  both  alike.  You  are  the 
less  to  be  pitied.  Have  you  not,  as  it  is,  found  consola- 
tions which  duty  and  the  honour  of  both,  and  (stronger 
still)  which  Nature  forbids  to  me?    Stay,'  she  added, 


68 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


'  you  carelessly  left  three  letters  from  Mme.  de  Sérizy  in 
a  drawer  ;  here  they  are.  My  silence  about  this  matter 
should  make  it  plain  to  you  that  in  me  you  have  a  wife 
who  has  plenty  of  indulgence  and  does  not  exact  from 
you  the  sacrifices  prescribed  by  the  law.  But  I  have 
thought  enough  to  see  that  the  rôles  of  husband  and 
wife  are  quite  different,  and  that  the  wife  alone  is  pre- 
destined to  misfortune.  My  virtue  is  based  upon  firmly 
fixed  and  definite  principles.  I  shall  live  blamelessly, 
but  let  me  live.' 

The  Marquis  was  taken  aback  by  a  logic  which 
women  grasp  with  the  clear  insight  of  love,  and  over- 
awed by  a  certain  dignity  natural  to  them  at  such  crises. 
Julie's  instinctive  repugnance  for  all  that  jarred  upon  her 
love  and  the  instincts  of  her  heart  is  one  of  the  fairest 
qualities  of  woman,  and  springs  perhaps  from  a  natural 
virtue  which  neither  laws  nor  civilisation  can  silence. 
And  who  shall  dare  to  blame  women  ?  If  a  woman  can 
silence  the  exclusive  sentiment  which  bids  her  c  forsake 
all  other  '  for  the  man  whom  she  loves,  what  is  she  but  a 
priest  who  has  lost  his  faith  ?  If  a  rigid  mind  here  and 
there  condemns  Julie  for  a  sort  of  compromise  between 
love  and  wifely  duty,  impassioned  souls  will  lay  it  to  her 
charge  as  a  crime.  To  be  thus  blamed  by  both  sides 
shows  one  of  two  things  very  clearly  —  that  misery 
necessarily  follows  in  the  train  of  broken  laws,  or  else 
that  there  are  deplorable  flaws  in  the  institutions  upon 
which  society  in  Europe  is  based. 

Two  years  went  by.  M.  amd  Mme.  d'Aiglemont 
went  their  separate  ways,  leading  their  life  in  the  world, 
meeting  each  other  more  frequently  abroad  than  at 
home,  a  refinement  upon  divorce,  in  which  many  a 
marriage  in  the  great  world  is  apt  to  end. 

One  evening,  strange  to  say,  found  husband  and  wife 
in  their  own  drawing-room.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  had 
been  dining  at  home  with  a  friend,  and  the  General, 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 

who  almost  invariably  dined  in  town,  had  not  gone  out 
for  once. 

*  There  is  a  pleasant  time  in  store  for  you,  Madame  la 
Marquise]  said  M.  d'Aiglemont,  setting  his  coffee  cup 
down  upon  the  table.  He  looked  at  the  guest,  Mme. 
de  Wimphen,  and  half-pettishly,  half-mi schievously 
added,  « 1  am  starting  off  for  several  days'  sport  with  the 
Master  of  the  Hounds.  For  a  whole  week,  at  any  rate, 
you  will  be  a  widow  in  good  earnest  ;  just  what  you  wish 
for,  I  suppose. — Guillaume,'  he  said  to  the  servant  who 
entered,  c  tell  them  to  put  the  horses  in.' 

Mme.  de  Wimphen  was  the  friend  to  whom  Julie 
had  begun  the  letter  upon  her  marriage.  The  glances 
exchanged  by  the  two  women  said  plainly  that  in  her 
Julie  had  found  an  intimate  friend,  an  indulgent  and 
invaluable  confidante.  Mme.  de  Wimphen's  marriage 
had  been  a  very  happy  one.  Perhaps  it  was  her  own 
happiness  which  secured  her  devotion  to  Julie's  unhappy 
life,  for  under  such  circumstances,  dissimilarity  of 
destiny  is  nearly  always  a  strong  bond  of  union. 

i  Is  the  hunting  season  not  over  yet  ?  *  asked  Julie, 
with  an  indifferent  glance  at  her  husband. 

c  The  Master  of  the  Hounds  comes  when  and  where 
he  pleases,  madame.  We  are  going  boar-hunting  in 
the  Royal  Forest.' 

c  Take  care  that  no  accident  happens  to  you.' 

6  Accidents  are  usually  unforeseen,'  he  said,  smiling. 

4  The  carriage  is  ready,  my  Lord  Marquis,'  said  the 
servant. 

c  Madame,  if  I  should  fall  a  victim  to  the  boar  ' 

he  continued,  with  a  suppliant  air. 

i  What  does  this  mean  ?  *  inquired  Mme.  de 
Wimphen. 

'Come,  come,'  said  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  turning  to 
her  husband  ;  smiling  at  her  friend  as  if  to  say, f  You 
will  soon  see.' 

Julie  held  up  her  head  ;  but  as  her  husband  came  close 


69 


7o 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


to  her,  she  swerved  at  the  last,  so  that  his  kiss  fell  not  on 
her  throat,  but  on  the  broad  frill  about  it. 

c  You  will  be  my  witness  before  heaven  now  that  I 
need  a  firman  to  obtain  this  little  grace  of  her,'  said  the 
Marquis,  addressing  Mme.  de  Wimphen.  'This  is  how 
this  wife  of  mine  understands  love.  She  has  brought 
me  to  this  pass,  by  what  trickery  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know. 
...  A  pleasant  time  to  you  !  '  and  he  went. 

(  But  your  poor  husband  is  really  very  good-natured,' 
cried  Louisa  de  Wimphen,  when  the  two  women  were 
alone  together.    c  He  loves  you.' 

c  Oh  !  not  another  syllable  after  that  last  word.  The 
name  I  bear  makes  me  shudder  I 

c  Yes,  but  Victor  obeys  you  implicitly,'  said  Louisa. 

4  His  obedience  is  founded  in  part  upon  the  great 
esteem  which  I  have  inspired  in  him.  As  far  as  out- 
ward things  go,  I  am  a  model  wife.  I  make  his  house 
pleasant  to  him  ;  I  shut  my  eyes  to  his  intrigues  ;  I  touch 
not  a  penny  of  his  fortune.  He  is  free  to  squander  the 
interest  exactly  as  he  pleases  ;  I  only  stipulate  that  he 
shall  not  touch  the  principal.  At  this  price  I  have  peace. 
He  neither  explains  nor  attempts  to  explain  my  life. 
But  though  my  husband  is  guided  by  me,  that  does  not 
say  that  I  have  nothing  to  fear  from  his  character.  I 
am  a  bear  leader  who  daily  trembles  lest  the  muzzle 
should  give  way  at  last.  If  Victor  once  took  it  into  his 
head  that  I  had  forfeited  my  right  to  his  esteem,  what 
would  happen  next  I  dare  not  think  \  for  he  is  violent, 
full  of  personal  pride,  and  vain  above  all  things.  While 
his  wits  are  not  keen  enough  to  enable  him  to  behave 
discreetly  at  a  delicate  crisis  when  his  lowest  passions 
are  involved,  his  character  is  weak,  and  he  would  very 
likely  kill  me  provisionally  even  if  he  died  of  remorse  next 
day.    But  there  is  no  fear  of  that  fatal  good  fortune.' 

A  brief  pause  followed.  Both  women  were  thinking 
of  the  real  cause  of  this  state  of  affairs.  Julie  gave 
Louisa  a  glance  which  revealed  her  thoughts. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


71 


CI  have  been  cruelly  obeyed/  she  cried.  *  Yet  I  never 
forbade  him  to  write  to  me.  Oh  !  he  has  forgotten  me, 
and  he  is  right.  If  his  life  had  been  spoiled,  it  would 
have  been  too  tragical  ;  one  life  is  enough,  is  it  not  ? 
Would  you  believe  it,  dear  ;  I  read  English  newspapers 
simply  to  see  his  name  in  print.  But  he  has  not  yet 
taken  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords.' 

c  So  you  know  English  ?  ' 

*  Did  I  not  tell  you  ? — Yes,  I  learned.' 

*  Poor  little  one  !  '  cried  Louisa,  grasping  Julie's  hand  in 
hers.    c  How  can  you  still  live  ?  ' 

4  That  is  a  secret,'  said  the  Marquise,  with  an  involun- 
tary gesture  almost  childlike  in  its  simplicity.  1  Listen, 
I  take  laudanum.  That  duchess  in  London  suggested 
the  idea  ;  you  know  the  story,  Maturin  made  use  of  it 
in  one  of  his  novels.  My  drops  are  very  weak,  but  I 
sleep  ;  I  am  only  awake  for  seven  hours  in  the  day,  and 
those  hours  I  spend  with  my  child.' 

Louisa  gazed  into  the  fire.  The  full  extent  of  her 
friend's  misery  was  opening  out  before  her  for  the  first 
time,  and  she  dared  not  look  into  her  face. 

*  Keep  my  secret,  Louisa,'  said  Julie,  after  a  moment's 
silence. 

Just  as  she  spoke  the  footman  brought  in  a  letter  for 
the  Marquise. 

*  Ah  !  '  she  cried,  and  her  face  grew  white. 

* 1  need  not  ask  from  whom  it  comes,'  said  Mme.  de 
Wimphen,  but  the  Marquise  was  reading  the  letter,  and 
heeded  nothing  else. 

Mme.  de  Wimphen,  watching  her  friend,  saw  strong 
feeling  wrought  to  the  highest  pitch,  ecstasy  of  the  most 
dangerous  kind  painted  on  Julie's  face  in  swift  changing 
white  and  red.  At  length  Julie  flung  the  sheet  into  the  fire. 

*  It  burns  like  fire,'  she  said.  6  Oh  !  my  heart  beats 
till  I  cannot  breathe.' 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  walked  up  and  down.  Her 
eyes  were  blazing. 


72 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


6  He  did  not  leave  Paris  !  '  she  cried. 

Mme.  de  Wimphen  did  not  dare  to  interrupt  the 
words  that  followed,  jerked-out  sentences,  measured  by 
dreadful  pauses  in  between.  After  every  break  the 
deep  notes  of  her  voice  sank  lower  and  lower.  There 
was  something  awful  about  the  last  words. 

c  He  has  seen  me,  constantly,  and  I  have  not  known 
it. — A  look,  taken  by  stealth,  every  day,  helps  him  to 
live. — Louisa,  you  do  not  know  ! — He  is  dying. — He 
wants  to  say  good-bye  to  me.  He  knows  that  my 
husband  has  gone  away  for  several  days.  He  will  be 
here  in  a  moment.  Oh  !  I  shall  die  :  I  am  lost. — 
Listen,  Louisa,  stay  with  me  !  Two  women  and  he  will 
not  dare   Oh  !  stay  with  me  ! — /  am  afraid!  * 

6  But  my  husband  knows  that  I  have  been  dining  with 
you  ;  he  is  sure  to  come  for  me,'  said  Mme.  de 
Wimphen. 

c  Well,  then,  before  you  go  I  will  send  him  away.  I 
will  play  the  executioner  for  us  both.    Oh  me  !  he  will 

think  that  I  do  not  love  him  any  more   And  that 

letter  of  his  !  Dear,  I  can  see  those  words  in  letters  of 
fire.' 

A  carriage  rolled  in  under  the  archway. 

c  Ah  !  ■  cried  the  Marquise,  with  something  like  joy 
in  her  voice,  c  he  is  coming  openly.  He  makes  no 
mystery  of  it.' 

c  Lord  Grenville,'  announced  the  servant. 

The  Marquise  stood  up  rigid  and  motionless  ;  but  at 
the  sight  of  Arthur's  white  face,  so  thin  and  haggard,  how 
was  it  possible  to  keep  up  the  show  of  severity  ?  Lord 
Grenville  saw  that  Julie  was  not  alone,  but  he  controlled 
his  fierce  annoyance,  and  looked  cool  and  unperturbed. 
Yet  for  the  two  women  who  knew  his  secret,  his  face, 
his  tones,  the  look  in  his  eyes  had  something  of  the 
power  attributed  to  the  torpedo.  Their  faculties  were 
benumbed  by  the  sharp  shock  of  contact  with  his 
horrible  pain.    The  sound  of  his  voice  set  Julie's  heart 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


73 


beating  so  cruelly  that  she  could  not  trust  herself  to 
speak  ;  she  was  afraid  that  he  would  see  the  full  extent  of 
his  power  over  her.  Lord  Grenville  did  not  dare  to  look  at 
Julie,  and  Mme.  de  Wimphen  was  left  to  sustain  a  con- 
versation to  which  no  one  listened.  Julie  glanced  at  her 
friend  with  touching  gratefulness  in  her  eyes  to  thank 
her  for  coming  to  her  aid. 

By  this  time  the  lovers  had  quelled  emotion  into 
silence,  and  could  preserve  the  limits  laid  down  by  duty 
and  convention.  But  M.  de  Wimphen  was  announced, 
and  as  he  came  in  the  two  friends  exchanged  glances. 
Both  felt  the  difficulties  of  this  fresh  complication.  It 
was  impossible  to  enter  into  explanations  with  M.  de 
Wimphen,  and  Louisa  could  not  think  of  any  sufficient 
pretext  for  asking  to  be  left. 

Julie  went  to  her,  ostensibly  to  wrap  her  up  in  her 
shawl.  4 1  will  be  brave,'  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  c  He 
came  here  in  the  face  of  all  the  world,  so  what  have  I  to 
fear  ?  Yet  but  for  you,  in  that  first  moment,  when  I  saw 
how  changed  he  looked,  I  should  have  fallen  at  his  feet.' 

4  Well,  Arthur,  you  have  broken  your  promise  to  me,' 
she  said,  in  a  faltering  voice,  when  she  returned.  Lord 
Grenville  did  not  venture  to  take  the  seat  upon  the  sofa 
by  her  side. 

4 1  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  hearing  your  voice, 
of  being  near  you.  The  thought  of  it  came  to  be  a  sort 
of  madness,  a  delirious  frenzy.  I  am  no  longer  master 
of  myself.  I  have  taken  myself  to  task  ;  it  is  no  use,  I 
am  too  weak,  I  ought  to  die.  But  to  die  without  seeing 
you,  without  having  heard  the  rustle  of  your  dress,  or 
felt  your  tears.    What  a  death  !  ■ 

He  moved  further  away  from  her  ;  but  in  his  hasty 
uprising  a  pistol  fell  out  of  his  pocket.  The  Marquise 
looked  down  blankly  at  the  weapon  ;  all  passion,  all 
expression  had  died  out  of  her  eyes.  Lord  Grenville 
stooped  for  the  thing,  raging  inwardly  over  an  accident 
which  seemed  like  a  piece  of  love-sick  strategy. 


74 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


1  Arthur  ! 9 

i  Madame/  he  said,  looking  down,  4 1  came  here  in 
utter  desperation  ;  I  meant  '  he  broke  off. 

c  You  meant  to  die  by  your  own  hand  here  in  my 
house  !  ' 

i  Not  alone,'  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

4  Not  alone  !    My  husband,  perhaps  ? 9 

4  No,  no,'  he  cried  in  a  choking  voice.  c  Reassure 
yourself,'  he  continued,  4  I  have  quite  given  up  my  deadly 
purpose.  As  soon  as  I  came  in,  as  soon  as  I  saw  you,  I 
felt  that  I  was  strong  enough  to  suffer  in  silence,  and  to 
die  alone.' 

Julie  sprang  up,  and  flung  herself  into  his  arms. 
Through  her  sobbing  he  caught  a  few  passionate  words, 
4  To  know  happiness,  and  then  to  die. — Yes,  let  it  be  so.' 

All  Julie's  story  was  summed  up  in  that  cry  from  the 
depths  ;  it  was  the  summons  of  nature  and  of  love  at 
which  women  without  a  religion  surrender.  With  the 
fierce  energy  of  unhoped-for  joy,  Arthur  caught  her  up 
and  carried  her  to  the  sofa  ;  but  in  a  moment  she  tore 
herself  from  her  lover's  arms,  looked  at  him  with  a  fixed 
despairing  gaze,  took  his  hand,  snatched  up  a  candle,  and 
drew  him  into  her  room.  When  they  stood  by  the  cot 
where  Hélène  lay  sleeping,  she  put  the  curtains  softly 
aside,  shading  the  candle  with  her  hand,  lest  the  light 
should  dazzle  the  half-closed  eyes  beneath  the  transparent 
lids.  Hélène  lay  smiling  in  her  sleep,  with  her  arms 
outstretched  on  the  coverlet.  Julie  glanced  from  her 
child  to  Arthur's  face.    That  look  told  him  all. 

4  We  may  leave  a  husband,  even  though  he  loves  us  : 
a  man  is  strong  ;  he  has  consolations. — We  may  defy  the 
world  and  its  laws.  But  a  motherless  child  !  ' — all  these 
thoughts,  and  a  thousand  others  more  moving  still,  found 
language  in  that  glance. 

4  We  can  take  her  with  us,'  muttered  he  ;  4 1  will  love 
her  dearly.' 

4  Mamma  !  '  cried  little  Hélène,  now  awake.  Julie 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


75 


burst  into  tears.  Lord  Grenville  sat  down  and  folded 
his  arms  in  gloomy  silence. 

c  Mamma  ! 9  At  the  sweet  childish  name,  so  many 
nobler  feelings,  so  many  irresistible  yearnings  awoke, 
that  for  a  moment  love  was  effaced  by  the  all-powerful 
instinct  of  motherhood  ;  the  mother  triumphed  over  the 
woman  in  Julie,  and  Lord  Grenville  could  not  hold  out, 
he  was  defeated  by  Julie's  tears. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  door  was  flung  noisily  open. 
4  Madame  d'Aiglemont,  are  you  hereabouts  ?  ?  called  a 
voice  which  rang  like  a  crack  of  thunder  through  the 
hearts  of  the  two  lovers.   The  Marquis  had  come  home. 

Before  Julie  could  recover  her  presence  of  mind,  her 
husband  was  on  the  way  to  the  door  of  her  room  which 
opened  into  his.  Luckily,  at  a  sign,  Lord  Grenville 
escaped  into  the  dressing-closet,  and  she  hastily  shut  the 
door  upon  him. 

c  Well,  my  lady,  here  am  I,'  said  Victor,  c  the  hunting 
party  did  not  come  off.    I  am  just  going  to  bed.' 

4  Good-night,  so  am  I.  So  go  and  leave  me  to  un- 
dress.' 

4  You  are  very  cross  to-night,  Madame  la  Marquise.' 

The  General  returned  to  his  room,  Julie  went  with 
him  to  the  door  and  shut  it.  Then  she  sprang  to  the 
dressing-closet  to  release  Arthur.  All  her  presence  of 
mind  returned  -,  she  bethought  herself  that  it  was  quite 
natural  that  her  sometime  doctor  should  pay  her  a  visit; 
she  might  have  left  him  in  the  drawing-room  while  she 
put  her  little  girl  to  bed.  She  was  about  to  tell  him, 
under  her  breath,  to  go  back  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
had  opened  the  door.  Then  she  shrieked  aloud.  Lord 
Grenville's  fingers  had  been  caught  and  crushed  in  the 
door. 

4  Well,  what  is  it  ?  '  demanded  her  husband. 
(  Oh  !  nothing,  nothing,  I  have  just  pricked  my  finger 
with  a  pin.' 

The  General's  door  opened  at  once.    Tulie  imagined 


• 


76 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


that  the  irruption  was  due  to  a  sudden  concern  for  her, 
and  cursed  a  solicitude  in  which  love  had  no  part.  She 
had  barely  time  to  close  the  dressing-closet,  and  Lord 
Grenville  had  not  extricated  his  hand.  The  General  did, 
in  fact,  appear,  but  his  wife  had  mistaken  his  motives  ; 
his  apprehensions  were  entirely  on  his  own  account. 

'Can  you  lend  me  a  bandana  handkerchief?  That 
stupid  fool  Charles  leaves  me  without  a  single  one.  In 
the  early  days  you  used  to  bother  me  with  looking  after 
me  so  carefully.  Ah,  well,  the  honeymoon  did  not 
last  very  long  for  me,  nor  yet  for  my  cravats.  Nowa- 
days I  am  given  over  to  the  secular  arm,  in  the  shape  of 
servants  who  do  not  care  one  jack  straw  for  what  I  say.' 

c  There  !  There  is  a  bandana  for  you.  Did  you  go 
into  the  drawing-room  ? ' 

<No.' 

i  Oh  !  you  might  perhaps  have  been  in  time  to  see 
Lord  Grenville. 
<  Is  he  in  Paris  ? 9 
6  It  seems  so.' 

6  Oh  !  I  will  go  at  once.    The  good  doctor. 
4  But   he   will   have   gone   by   now  !  '  exclaimed 
Julie. 

The  Marquis,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
was  tying  the  handkerchief  over  his  head.  He  looked 
complacently  at  himself  in  the  glass, 

c  What  has  become  of  the  servants  is  more  than  I 
know,'  he  remarked.  * 1  have  rung  the  bell  three  times 
for  Charles,  and  he  has  not  answered  it.  And  your 
maid  is  not  here  either.  Ring  for  her.  I  should  like 
another  blanket  on  my  bed  to-night.' 

'  Pauline  is  out,'  the  Marquise  said  drily. 

i  What,  at  midnight  ! 9  exclaimed  the  General. 

c  I  gave  her  leave  to  go  to  the  Opera.' 

4  That  is  funny  !  '  returned  her  husband,  continuing 
to  undress.    c  I  thought  I  saw  her  coming  upstairs.' 

'She  has  come  in  then,  of  course,'  said  Julie,  with 


(  A  Woman  of  Thirty 


77 


assumed  impatience,  and  to  allay  any  possible  suspicion 
on  her  husband's  part  she  pretended  to  ring  the  bell. 

The  whole  history  of  that  night  has  never  been  known, 
but  no  doubt  it  was  as  simple  and  as  tragically  common- 
place as  the  domestic  incidents  that  preceded  it. 

Next  day  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont  took  to  her  bed, 
nor  did  she  leave  it  for  some  days, 

*  What  can  have  happened  in  your  family  so  extra- 
ordinary that  every  one  is  talking  about  your  wife  ? 1 
asked  M.  de  Ronquerolles  of  M.  d'Aiglemont  a  short 
time  after  that  night  of  catastrophes. 

i  Take  my  advice  and  remain  a  bachelor,'  said  d'Aigle- 
mont. i  The  curtains  of  Hélène's  cot  caught  fire,  and 
gave  my  wife  such  a  shock  that  it  will  be  a  twelvemonth 
before  she  gets  over  it  ->  so  the  doctor  says.  You  marry 
a  pretty  wife,  and  her  looks  fall  off  ;  you  marry  a  girl  in 
blooming  health,  and  she  turns  into  an  invalid.  You 
think  she  has  a  passionate  temperament,  and  find  her 
cold,  or  else  under  her  apparent  coldness  there  lurks  a 
nature  so  passionate  that  she  is  the  death  of  you,  or  she 
dishonours  your  name.  Sometimes  the  meekest  of  them 
will  turn  out  crotchety,  though  the  crotchety  ones 
never  grow  any  sweeter.  Sometimes  the  mere  child,  so 
simple  and  silly  at  first,  will  develop  an  iron  will  to 
thwart  you  and  the  ingenuity  of  a  fiend.  I  am  tired  of 
marriage.' 

c  Or  of  your  wife  ?  ' 

cThat  would  be  difficult.  By  the  by,  do  you  feel 
inclined  to  go  to  Saint-Thomas  d'Aquin  with  me  to 
attend  Lord  Grenville's  funeral  ?  ' 

*  A  singular  way  of  spending  time. — Is  it  really  known 
how  he  came  by  his  death  ?  '  added  Ronquerolles. 

4  His  man  says  that  he  spent  a  whole  night  sitting  on 
somebody's  window  sill  to  save  some  woman's  character, 
and  it  has  been  infernally  cold  lately.' 

i  Such  devotion  would  be  highly  creditable  to  one  of 


78  A  Woman  of  Thirty  * 

us  old  stagers  ;  but  Lord  Grenville  was  a  youngster  and 
— an  Englishman.  Englishmen  never  can  do  anything 
like  anybody  else.' 

i  Pooh  !  '  returned  d'Aiglemont,  c  these  heroic  exploits 
all  depend  upon  the  woman  in  the  case,  and  it  certainly 
was  not  for  one  that  I  know,  that  poor  Arthur  came  by 
his  death.' 


II 

A  HIDDEN  GRIEF 

Between  the  Seine  and  the  little  river  Loing  lies  a  wide 
flat  country,  skirted  on  the  one  side  by  the  Forest  of 
Fontainebleau,  and  marked  out  as  to  its  southern  limits 
by  the  towns  of  Moret,  Montereau,  and  Nemours.  It  is 
a  dreary  country  ;  little  knolls  of  hills  appear  only  at  rare 
intervals,  and  a  coppice  here  and  there  among  the  fields 
affords  cover  for  game  ;  and  beyond,  upon  every  side, 
stretches  the  endless  grey  or  yellowish  horizon  peculiar 
to  Beauce,  Sologne,  and  Berri. 

In  the  very  centre  of  the  plain,  at  equal  distances  from 
Moret  and  Montereau,  the  traveller  passes  the  old 
chateau  of  Saint-Lange,  standing  amid  surroundings 
which  lack  neither  dignity  nor  stateliness.  There  are 
magnificent  avenues  of  elm-trees,  great  gardens  encircled 
by  the  moat,  and  a  circumference  of  walls  about  a 
huge  manorial  pile  which  represents  the  profits  of  the 
maltote^  the  gains  of  farmers-general,  legalised  malversa- 
tion, or  the  vast  fortunes  of  great  houses  now  brought 
low  beneath  the  hammer  of  the  Civil  Code. 

Should  any  artist  or  dreamer  of  dreams  chance  to  stray 
along  the  roads  full  of  deep  ruts,  or  over  the  heavy  land 
which  secures  the  place  against  intrusion,  he  will  wonder 
how  it  happened  that  this  romantic  old  place  was  set 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


79 


down  in  a  savannah  of  corn-land,  a  desert  of  chalk,  and 
sand,  and  marl,  where  gaiety  dies  away,  and  melancholy 
is  a  natural  product  of  the  soil.  The  voiceless  solitude, 
the  monotonous  horizon  line  which  weigh  upon  the 
spirits,  are  negative  beauties,  which  only  suit  with  sorrow 
that  refuses  to  be  comforted. 

Hither,  at  the  close  of  the  year  1820,  came  a  wom?n, 
still  young,  well  known  in  Paris  for  her  charm,  her  fair 
face,  and  her  wit  ;  and  to  the  immense  astonishment  of 
the  little  village  a  mile  away,  this  woman  of  high  rank  and 
corresponding  fortune  took  up  her  abode  at  Saint- Lange. 

From  time  immemorial,  farmers  and  labourers  had  seen 
no  gentry  at  the  chateau.  The  estate,  considerable 
though  it  was,  had  been  left  in  charge  of  a  land-steward 
and  the  house  to  the  old  servants.  Wherefore  the 
appearance  of  the  lady  of  the  manor  caused  a  kind  of 
sensation  in  the  district. 

A  group  had  gathered  in  the  yard  of  the  wretched  little 
wineshop  at  the  end  of  the  village  (where  the  road  forks 
to  Nemours  and  Moret)  to  see  the  carriage  pass.  It  went 
by  slowly,  for  the  Marquise  had  come  from  Paris  with  her 
own  horses,  and  those  on  the  look-out  had  ample  oppor- 
tunity of  observing  a  waiting-maid,  who  sat  with  her 
back  to  the  horses  holding  à  little  girl,  with  a  somewhat 
dreamy  look,  upon  her  knee.  The  child's  mother  lay 
back  in  the  carriage  ;  she  looked  like  a  dying  woman  sent 
out  into  country  air  by  her  doctors  as  a  last  resource. 
Village  politicians  were  by  no  means  pleased  to  see  the 
young,  delicate,  downcast  face  ;  they  had  hoped  that  the 
new  arrival  at  Saint-Lange  would  bring  some  life  and 
stir  into  the  neighbourhood,  and  clearly  any  sort  of  stir 
or  movement  must  be  distasteful  to  the  suffering  invalid 
in  the  travelling  carriage. 

That  evening,  when  the  notables  of  Saint-Lange 
were  drinking  in  the  private  room  of  the  wineshop,  the 
longest  head  among  them  declared  that  such  depression 
could  admit  of  but  one  construction — the  Marquise  was 


8o  A  Woman  of  Thirty 


ruined.  His  lordship  the  Marquis  was  away  in  Spain 
with  the  Duc  d'Angoulême  (so  they  said  in  the  papers), 
and  beyond  a  doubt  her  ladyship  had  come  to  Saint- 
Lange  to  retrench  after  a  run  of  ill-luck  on  the  Boarse. 
The  Marquis  was  one  of  the  greatest  gamblers  on  the 
face  of  the  globe.  Perhaps  the  estate  would  be  cut  up 
and  sold  in  little  lots.  There  would  be  some  good 
strokes  of  business  to  be  made  in  that  case,  and  it 
behoved  everybody  to  count  up  his  cash,  unearth  his 
savings  and  to  see  how  he  stood,  so  as  to  secure  his  share 
of  the  spoil  of  Saint-Lange. 

So  fair  did  this  future  seem,  that  the  village  worthies, 
dying  to  know  whether  it  was  founded  on  fact,  began  to 
think  of  ways  of  getting  at  the  truth  through  the  servants 
at  the  chateau.  None  of  these,  however,  could  throw 
any  light  on  the  calamity  which  had  brought  their 
mistress  into  the  country  at  the  beginning  of  winter, 
and  to  the  old  chateau  of  Saint-Lange  of  all  places,  when 
she  might  have  taken  her  choice  of  cheerful  country- 
houses  famous  for  their  beautiful  gardens. 

His  worship  the  mayor  called  to  pay  his  respects;  but 
he  did  not  see  the  lady.  Then  the  land-steward  tried 
with  no  better  success. 

Madame  la  Marquise  kept  her  room,  only  leaving  it, 
while  it  was  set  in  order,  for  the  small  adjoining  drawing- 
room,  where  she  dined  ;  if,  indeed,  to  sit  down  to  a  table, 
to  look  with  disgust  at  the  dishes,  and  take  the  precise 
amount  of  nourishment  required  to  prevent  death  from 
sheer  starvation,  can  be  called  dining.  The  meal  over, 
she  returned  at  once  to  the  old-fashioned  low  chair,  in 
which  she  had  sat  since  the  morning,  in  the  embrasure 
of  the  one  window  that  lighted  her  room. 

Her  little  girl  she  only  saw  for  a  few  minutes  dnily, 
during  the  dismal  dinner,  and  even  for  that  short  time 
she  seemed  scarcely  able  to  bear  the  child's  presence. 
Surely  nothing  but  the  most  unheard-of  anguish  could 
have  extinguished  a  mother's  love  so  early. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  81 


None  of  the  servants  were  suffered  to  come  near,  her 
own  woman  was  the  one  creature  whom  she  liked  to 
have  about  her  ;  the  chateau  must  be  perfectly  quiet,  the 
child  must  play  at  the  other  end  of  the  house.  The 
slightest  sound  had  grown  so  intolerable,  that  any  human 
voice,  even  the  voice  of  her  own  child,  jarred  upon 
her. 

At  first  the  whole  countryside  was  deeply  interested 
in  these  eccentricities  ;  but  time  passed  on,  every  possible 
hypothesis  had  been  advanced  to  account  for  them,  and 
the  peasants  and  dwellers  in  the  little  country  towns 
thought  no  more  of  the  invalid  lady. 

So  the  Marquise  was  left  to  herself.  She  might  live 
on,  perfectly  silent,  amid  the  silence  which  she  herself 
had  created  ;  there  was  nothing  to  draw  her  forth  from 
the  tapestried  chamber  where  her  grandmother  had  died, 
whither  she  herself  had  come  that  she  might  die,  gently, 
without  witnesses,  without  importunate  solicitude,  with- 
out suffering  from  the  insincere  demonstrations  of  egoism 
masquerading  as  affection,  which  double  the  agony  of 
death  in  great  cities. 

She  was  twenty-six  years  old.  At  that  age,  with 
plenty  of  romantic  illusions  still  left,  the  mind  loves  to 
dwell  on  the  thought  of  death  when  death  seems  to 
come  as  a  friend.  But  with  youth,  death  is  coy,  coming 
up  close  only  to  go  away,  snowing  himself  and  hiding 
again,  till  youth  has  time  to  fall  out  of  love  with  him 
during  this  dalliance.  There  is  that  uncertainty  too 
that  hangs  over  death's  to-morrow.  Youth  plunges  back 
into  the  world  of  living  men,  there  to  find  the  pain  more 
pitiless  than  death,  that  does  not  wait  to  strike. 

This  woman  who  refused  to  live  was  to  know  the 
bitterness  of  these  reprieves  in  the  depths  of  her  loneli- 
ness ;  in  moral  agony,  which  death  would  not  come  to 
end,  she  was  to  serve  a  terrible  apprenticeship  to  the 
egoism  which  must  take  the  bloom  from  her  heart  and 
break  her  in  to  the  life  of  the  world. 

F 


82 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


This  harsh  and  sorry  teaching  is  the  usual  outcome  of 
our  early  sorrows.  For  the  first,  and  perhaps  for  the 
last  time  in  her  life,  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont  was  in 
very  truth  suffering.  And,  indeed,  would  it  not  be  an 
error  to  suppose  that  the  same  sentiment  can  be  repro- 
duced in  us  ?  Once  develop  the  power  to  feel,  is  it  not 
always  there  in  the  depths  of  our  nature  ?  The  accidents 
of  life  may  lull  or  awaken  it,  but  there  it  is,  of  necessity 
modifying  the  self,  its  abiding  place.  Hence,  every 
sensation  should  have  its  great  day  once  and  for  all,  its 
first  day  of  storm,  be  it  long  or  short.  Hence,  likewise, 
pain,  the  most  abiding  of  our  sensations,  could  be  keenly 
felt  only  at  its  first  irruption,  its  intensity  diminishing 
with  every  subsequent  paroxysm,  either  because  we 
grow  accustomed  to  these  crises,  or  perhaps  because  a 
natural  instinct  of  self-preservation  asserts  itself,  and 
opposes  to  the  destroying  force  of  anguish  an  equal  but 
passive  force  of  inertia. 

Yet  of  all  kinds  of  suffering,  to  which  does  the  name 
of  anguish  belong  ?  For  the  loss  of  parents,  Nature  has 
in  a  manner  prepared  us  ;  physical  suffering,  again,  is  an 
evil  which  passes  over  us  and  is  gone  ;  it  lays  no  hold 
upon  the  soul  ;  if  it  persists,  it  ceases  to  be  an  evil,  it  is 
death.  The  young  mother  loses  her  firstborn,  but 
wedded  love  ere  long  gives  her  a  successor.  This  grief, 
too,  is  transient.  After  all,  these,  and  many  other  troubles 
like  unto  them,  are  in  some  sort  wounds  and  bruises  ; 
they  do  not  sap  the  springs  of  vitality,  and  only  a  suc- 
cession of  such  blows  can  crush  in  us  the  instinct  that 
seeks  happiness.  Great  pain,  therefore,  pain  that  rises  to 
anguish,  should  be  suffering  so  deadly,  that  past,  present, 
and  future  are  alike  included  in  its  grip,  and  no  part 
of  life  is  left  sound  and  whole.  Never  afterwards 
can  we  think  the  same  thoughts  as  before.  Anguish 
engraves  itself  in  ineffaceable  characters  on  mouth  and 
brow  ;  it  passes  through  us,  destroying  or  relaxing  the 
springs  that  vibrate  to  enjoyment,  leaving  behind  in 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


83 


the  soul  the  seeds  of  a  disgust  for  all  things  in  this 
world. 

Yet,  again,  to  be  measureless,  to  weigh  like  this  upon 
body  and  soul,  the  trouble  should  befall  when  soul  and 
body  have  just  come  to  their  full  strength,  and  smite 
down  a  heart  that  beats  high  with  life.  Then  it  is  that 
great  scars  are  made.  Terrible  is  the  anguish.  None, 
it  may  be,  can  issue  from  this  soul-sickness  without 
undergoing  some  dramatic  change.  Those  who  survive 
it,  those  who  remain  on  earth,  return  to  the  world  to 
wear  an  actor  s  countenance  and  to  play  an  actor's  part. 
They  know  the  side-scenes  where  actors  may  retire  to 
calculate  chances,  shed  their  tears,  or  pass  their  jests. 
Life  holds  no  inscrutable  dark  places  for  those  who  have 
passed  through  this  ordeal  ;  their  judgments  are  Rhada- 
man  thine. 

For  young  women  of  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont's 
age,  this  first,  this  most  poignant  pain  of  all,  is  always 
referable  to  the  same  cause.  A  woman,  especially  if  she 
is  a  young  woman,  greatly  beautiful,  and  by  nature  great, 
never  fails  to  stake  her  whole  life  as  instinct  and  senti- 
ment and  society  all  unite  to  bid  her.  Suppose  that  that 
life  fails  her,  suppose  that  she  still  lives  on,  she  cannot 
but  endure  the  most  cruel  pangs,  inasmuch  as  a  first  love  is 
the  loveliest  of  all.  How  comes  it  that  this  catastrophe 
has  found  no  painter,  no  poet  ?  And  yet,  can  it  be 
painted  ?  Can  it  be  sung  ?  No  ;  for  the  anguish  arising 
from  it  eludes  analysis  and  defies  the  colours  of  art. 
And  more  than  this,  such  pain  is  never  confessed.  To 
console  the  sufferer,  you  must  be  able  to  divine  the  past 
which  she  hugs  in  bitterness  to  her  soul  like  a  remorse  ; 
it  is  like  an  avalanche  in  a  valley,  it  laid  all  waste  before 
it  found  a  permanent  resting-place. 

The  Marquise  was  suffering  from  this  anguish,  which 
will  for  long  remain  unknown,  because  the  whole  world 
condemns  it,  while  sentiment  cherishes  it,  and  the  con- 
science of  a  true  woman  justifies  her  in  it.    It  is  with 


8+ 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


such  pain  as  with  children  steadily  disowned  of  life,  and 
therefore  bound  more  closely  to  the  mother's  heart  than 
other  children  more  bounteously  endowed.  Never,  per- 
haps, was  the  awful  catastrophe  in  which  the  whole  world 
without  dies  for  us,  so  deadly,  so  complete,  so  cruelly  ag- 
gravated by  circumstance  as  it  had  been  for  the  Marquise. 
The  man  whom  she  had  loved  was  young  and  generous  ; 
in  obedience  to  the  laws  of  the  world,  she  had  refused 
herself  to  his  love,  and  he  had  died  to  save  a  woman's 
honour,  as  the  world  calls  it.  To  whom  could  she 
speak  of  her  misery  ?  Her  tears  would  be  an  offence 
against  her  husband,  the  origin  of  the  tragedy.  By  all 
laws  written  and  unwritten  she  was  bound  over  to 
silence.  A  woman  would  have  enjoyed  the  story  ;  a  man 
would  have  schemed  for  his  own  benefit.  No  ;  such 
grief  as  hers  can  only  weep  freely  in  solitude  and  in  lone- 
liness ;  she  must  consume  her  pain  or  be  consumed  by 
it  ;  die  or  kill  something  within  her — her  conscience, 
it  may  be. 

Day  after  day  she  sat  gazing  at  the  flat  horizon.  It 
lay  out  before  her  like  her  own  life  to  come.  There  was 
nothing  to  discover,  nothing  to  hope.  The  whole  of  it 
could  be  seen  at  a  glance.  It  was  the  visible  presentment 
in  the  outward  world  of  the  chill  sense  of  desolation 
which  was  gnawing  restlessly  at  her  heart.  The  misty 
mornings,  the  pale,  bright  sky,  the  low  clouds  scud- 
ding under  the  grey  dome  of  heaven,  fitted  with  the 
moods  of  her  soul-sickness.  Her  heart  did  not  contract, 
was  neither  more  nor  less  seared,  rather  it  seemed  as  if 
her  youth,  in  its  full  blossom,  was  slowly  turned  to 
stone  by  an  anguish  intolerable  because  it  was  barren. 
She  suffered  through  herself  and  for  herself.  How  could 
it  end  save  in  self-absorption  ?  Ugly  torturing  thoughts 
probed  her  conscience.  Candid  self-examination  pro- 
nounced that  she  was  double,  there  were  two  selves 
within  her;  a  woman  who  felt  and  a  woman  who 
thought  ;  a  self  that  suffered  and  a  self  that  would  fain 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


suffer  no  longer.  Her  mind  travelled  back  to  the  joys 
of  childish  days  ;  they  had  gone  by,  and  she  had  never 
known  how  happy  they  were.  Scenes  crowded  up  in 
her  memory  as  in  a  bright  mirror  glass,  to  demonstrate 
the  deception  of  a  marriage  which,  all  that  it  should  be 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  was  in  reality  so  wretched. 
What  had  the  delicate  pride  of  young  womanhood  done 
for  her — the  bliss  forgone,  the  sacrifices  made  to  the 
world  ?  Everything  in  her  expressed  love,  awaited  love  ; 
her  movements  still  were  full  of  perfect  grace  ;  her  smile, 
her  charm,  were  hers  as  before  ;  why  ?  she  asked  herself. 
The  sense  of  her  own  youth  and  physical  loveliness  no 
more  affected  her  than  some  meaningless  reiterated 
sound.  Her  very  beauty  had  grown  intolerable  to 
her  as  a  useless  thing.  She  shrank  aghast  from  the 
thought  that  through  the  rest  of  life  she  must  remain  an 
incomplete  creature  ;  had  not  the  inner  self  lost  its  power 
of  receiving  impressions  with  that  zest,  that  exquisite  sense 
of  freshness  which  is  the  spring  of  so  much  of  life's  glad- 
ness ?  The  impressions  of  the  future  would  for  the  most 
part  be  effaced  as  soon  as  received,  and  many  of  the 
thoughts  which  once  would  have  moved  her  now  would 
move  her  no  more. 

After  the  childhood  of  the  creature  dawns  the  child- 
hood of  the  heart  ;  but  this  second  infancy  was  over,  her 
lover  had  taken  it  down  with  him  into  the  grave.  The 
longings  of  youth  remained  ;  she  was  young  yet  ;  but  the 
completeness  of  youth  was  gone,  and  with  that  lost 
completeness  the  whole  value  and  savour  of  life  had 
diminished  somewhat.  Should  she  not  always  bear 
within  her  the  seeds  of  sadness  and  mistrust,  ready  to 
grow  up  and  rob  emotion  of  its  springtide  of  fervour  ? 
Conscious  she  must  always  be  that  nothing  could  give 
her  now  the  happiness  so  longed  for,  that  seemed  so 
fair  in  her  dreams.  The  fire  from  heaven  that  sheds 
abroad  its  light  in  the  heart,  in  the  dawn  of  love,  had 
been  quenched  in  tears,  the  first  real  tears  which  she 


86 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


had  shed  ;  henceforth  she  must  always  suffer,  because 
it  was  no  longer  in  her  power  to  be  what  once  she 
might  have  been.  This  is  a  belief  which  turns  us  in 
aversion  and  bitterness  of  spirit  from  any  proffered  new 
delight. 

Julie  had  come  to  look  at  life  from  the  point  of  view 
of  age  about  to  die.  Young  though  she  felt,  the  heavy 
weight  of  joyless  days  had  fallen  upon  her,  and  left  her 
broken-spirited  and  old  before  her  time.  With  a  de- 
spairing cry,  she  asked  the  world  what  it  could  give  her 
in  exchange  for  the  love  now  lost,  by  which  she  had 
lived.  She  asked  herself  whether  in  that  vanished  love,  so 
chaste  and  pure,  her  will  had  not  been  more  criminal 
than  her  deeds,  and  chose  to  believe  herself  guilty  $ 
partly  to  affront  the  world,  partly  for  her  own  consolation, 
in  that  she  had  missed  the  close  union  of  body  and  soul, 
which  diminishes  the  pain  of  the  one  who  is  left  behind 
by  the  knowledge  that  once  it  has  known  and  given  joy 
to  the  full,  and  retains  within  itself  the  impress  of  that 
which  is  no  more. 

Something  of  the  mortification  of  the  actress  cheated 
of  her  part  mingled  with  the  pain  which  thrilled  through 
every  fibre  of  her  heart  and  brain.  Her  nature  had  been 
thwarted,  her  vanity  wounded,  her  woman's  generosity 
cheated  of  self-sacrifice.  Then,  when  she  had  raised  all 
these  questions,  set  vibrating  all  the  springs  in  those 
different  phases  of  being  which  we  distinguish  as  social, 
moral,  and  physical,  her  energies  were  so  far  exhausted 
and  relaxed  that  she  was  powerless  to  grasp  a  single 
thought  amid  the  chase  of  conflicting  ideas. 

Sometimes  as  the  mists  fell,  she  would  throw  her 
window  open,  and  would  stay  there,  motionless,  breath- 
ing in  unheedingly  the  damp  earthy  scent  in  the  air, 
her  mind  to  all  appearance  an  unintelligent  blank,  for 
the  ceaseless  burden  of  sorrow  humming  in  her  brain 
left  her  deaf  to  earth's  harmonies  and  insensible  to  the 
delights  of  thought. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  87 


One  day,  towards  noon,  when  the  sun  shone  out  for  a 
little,  her  maid  came  in  without  a  summons. 

c  This  is  the  fourth  time  that  M.  le  Curé  has  come  to 
see  Mme.  la  Marquise;  to-day  he  is  so  determined 
about  it,  that  we  did  not  know  what  to  tell  him.' 

4  He  has  come  to  ask  for  some  money  for  the  poor,  no 
doubt  ;  take  him  twenty-five  louis  from  me.' 

The  woman  went  only  to  return. 

4  M.  le  Curé  will  not  take  the  money,  my  lady  ;  he 
wants  to  speak  to  you.' 

6  Then  let  him  come  !  '  said  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  with 
an  involuntary  shrug  which  augured  ill  for  the  priest's 
reception.  Evidently  the  lady  meant  to  put  a  stop  to 
persecution  by  a  short  and  sharp  method. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  had  lost  her  mother  in  her  early 
childhood  ;  and  as  a  natural  consequence  in  her  bring- 
ing-up,  she  had  felt  the  influences  of  the  relaxed  notions 
which  loosened  the  hold  of  religion  upon  France  during 
the  Revolution.  Piety  is  a  womanly  virtue  which 
women  alone  can  really  instil  3  and  the  Marquise,  a  child 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  had  adopted  her  father's 
creed  of  philosophism,  and  practised  no  religious  obser- 
vances. A  priest,  to  her  way  of  thinking,  was  a  civil 
servant  of  very  doubtful  utility.  In  her  present  position, 
the  teaching  of  religion  could  only  poison  her  wounds  ; 
she  had,  moreover,  but  scanty  faith  in  the  lights  of 
country  curés,  and  made  up  her  mind  to  put  this  one 
gently  but  firmly  in  his  place,  and  to  rid  herself  of  him, 
after  the  manner  of  the  rich,  by  bestowing  a  benefit. 

At  first  sight  of  the  curé  the  Marquise  felt  no  inclina- 
tion to  change  her  mind.  She  saw  before  her  a  stout, 
rotund  little  man,  with  a  ruddy,  wrinkled,  elderly  face, 
which  awkwardly  and  unsuccessfully  tried  to  smile. 
His  bald,  quadrant-shaped  forehead,  furrowed  by  inter- 
secting lines,  was  too  heavy  for  the  rest  of  his  face,  which 
seemed  to  be  dwarfed  by  it.  A  fringe  of  scanty  white 
hair  encircled  the  back  of  his  head,  and  almost  reached  hi§ 


88 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


ears.  Yet  the  priest  looked  as  if  by  nature  he  had  a 
genial  disposition  ;  his  thick  lips,  his  slightly  curved 
nose,  his  chin  which  vanished  in  a  double  fold  of  wrinkles, 
— all  marked  him  out  as  a  man  who  took  cheerful  views 
of  life. 

At  first  the  Marquise  saw  nothing  but  these  salient 
characteristics,  but  at  the  first  word  she  was  struck  by 
the  sweetness  of  the  speaker's  voice.  Looking  at  him 
more  closely,  she  saw  that  the  eyes  under  the  grizzled 
eyebrows  had  shed  tears,  and  his  face,  turned  in  profile, 
wore  so  sublime  an  impress  of  sorrow,  that  the  Marquise 
recognised  the  man  in  the  curé. 

1  Madame  la  Marquise,  the  rich  only  come  within  our 
province  when  they  are  in  trouble.  It  is  easy  to  see  that 
the  troubles  of  a  young,  beautiful,  and  wealthy  married 
woman,  who  has  lost  neither  children  nor  relatives,  are 
caused  by  wounds  whose  pangs  religion  alone  can  soothe. 
Your  soul  is  in  danger,  madame.  I  am  not  speaking 
now  of  the  hereafter  which  awaits  us.  No,  I  am  not  in 
the  confessional.  But  it  is  my  duty,  is  it  not,  to  open 
your  eyes  to  your  future  life  here  on  earth  ?  You  will 
pardon  an  old  man,  will  you  not,  for  importunity  which 
has  your  own  happiness  for  its  object  ?  ' 

'There  is  no  more  happiness  for  me,  monsieur.  I 
shall  soon  be,  as  you  say,  in  your  province  ->  but  it  will 
be  for  ever.' 

c  Nay,  madame.  You  will  not  die  of  this  pain  which 
lies  heavy  upon  you,  and  can  be  read  in  your  face.  If 
you  had  been  destined  to  die  of  it,  you  would  not  be 
here  at  Saint-Lange.  A  definite  regret  is  not  so  deadly 
as  hope  deferred.  I  have  known  others  pass  through 
more  intolerable  and  more  awful  anguish,  and  yet  they 
live.' 

The  Marquise  looked  incredulous. 

c  Madame,  I  know  a  man  whose  affliction  was  so  sore 
that  your  trouble  would  seem  to  you  to  be  light  com- 
pared with  his.' 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


Perhaps  the  long  solitary  hours  had  begun  to  hang 
heavily  ;  perhaps  in  the  recesses  of  the  Marquise's  mind 
lay  the  thought  that  here  was  a  friendly  heart  to  whom 
she  might  be  able  to  pour  out  her  troubles.  However  it 
was,  she  gave  the  curé  a  questioning  glance  which  could 
not  be  mistaken. 

'Madame,'  he  continued,  cthe  man  of  whom  I  tell 
you  had  but  three  children  left  of  a  once  large  family 
circle.  He  lost  his  parents,  his  daughter,  and  his  wife, 
whom  he  dearly  loved.  He  was  left  alone  at  last  on  the 
little  farm  where  he  had  lived  so  happily  for  so  long. 
His  three  sons  were  in  the  army,  and  each  of  the  lads 
had  risen  in  proportion  to  his  time  of  service.  During 
the  Hundred  Days,  the  oldest  went  into  the  Guard  with  a 
colonel's  commission  ;  the  second  was  a  major  in  the 
artillery  ;  the  youngest  a  major  in  a  regiment  of  dra- 
goons. Madame,  those  three  boys  loved  their  father  as 
much  as  he  loved  them.  If  you  but  knew  how  careless 
young  fellows  grow  of  home  ties  when  they  are  carried 
away  by  the  current  of  their  own  lives,  you  would 
realise  from  this  one  little  thing  how  warmly  they  loved 
the  lonely  old  father,  who  only  lived  in  and  for  them — 
never  a  week  passed  without  a  letter  from  one  of  the 
boys.  But  then  he  on  his  side  had  never  been  weakly 
indulgent,  to  lessen  their  respect  for  him  ;  nor  unjustly 
severe,  to  thwart  their  affection  ;  nor  apt  to  grudge 
sacrifices,  the  thing  that  estranges  children's  hearts.  He 
had  been  more  than  a  father  •>  he  had  been  a  brother  to 
them,  and  their  friend. 

cAt  last  he  went  to  Paris  to  bid  them  good-bye  before 
they  set  out  for  Belgium  ;  he  wished  to  see  that  they 
had  good  horses  and  all  that  they  needed.  And  so  they 
went,  and  the  father  returned  to  his  home  again.  Then 
the  war  began.  He  had  letters  from  Fleurus,  and  [again 
from  Ligny.  All  went  well.  Then  came  the  battle  of 
Waterloo,  and  you  know  the  rest.  France  was  plunged 
into  mourning  $  every  family  waited  in  intense  anxiety 


9o 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


for  news.  You  may  imagine,  madame,  how  the  old 
man  waited  for  tidings,  in  anxiety  that  knew  no  peace 
nor  rest.  He  used  to  read  the  gazettes  ;  he  went  to  the 
coach  office  every  day.  One  evening  he  was  told  that 
the  colonel's  servant  had  come.  The  man  was  riding 
his  master's  horse — what  need  was  there  to  ask  anv 
questions  ? — the  colonel  was  dead,  cut  in  two  by  a  shell. 
Before  the  evening  was  out  the  youngest  son's  servant 
arrived — the  youngest  had  died  on  the  eve  of  the  battle. 
At  midnight  came  a  gunner  with  tidings  of  the  death  of 
the  last  ;  upon  whom,  in  those  few  hours,  the  poor  father 
had  centred  all  his  life.    Madame,  they  all  had  fallen.' 

After  a  pause  the  good  man  controlled  his  feelings, 
and  added  gently — 

6  And  their  father  is  still  living,  madame.  He  realised 
that  if  God  had  left  him  on  earth,  he  was  bound  to  live 
on  and  suffer  on  earth  ;  but  he  took  refuge  in  the 
sanctuary.    What  could  he  be  ?  ' 

The  Marquise  looked  up  and  saw  the  cure's  face, 
grown  sublime  in  its  sorrow  and  resignation,  and  waited 
for  him  to  speak.  When  the  words  came,  tears  broke 
from  her. 

c  A  priest,  madame  ;  consecrated  by  his  own  tears 
previously  shed  at  the  foot  of  the  altar.' 

Silence  prevailed  for  a  little.  The  Marquise  and  the 
curé  looked  out  at  the  foggy  landscape,  as  if  they  could 
see  the  figures  of  those  who  were  no  more. 

i  Not  a  priest  in  a  city,  but  a  simple  country  curé,' 
added  he. 

c  At  Saint-Lange,'  she  said,  drying  her  eyes. 
c  Yes,  madame.' 

Never  had  the  majesty  of  grief  seemed  so  great  to 
Julie.  The  two  words  sank  straight  into  her  heart  with 
the  weight  of  an  infinite  sorrow.  The  gentle,  sonorous 
tones  troubled  her  heart.  Ah  !  that  full,  deep  voice, 
charged  with  plangent  vibration,  was  the  voice  of  one 
who  had  suffered  indeed. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


91 


*  And  if  I  do  not  die,  monsieur,  what  will  become  of 
me  ?  '    The  Marquise  spoke  almost  reverently. 
c  Have  you  not  a  child,  madame  ?  ? 
1  Yes,'  she  said  stiffly. 

The  curé  gave  her  such  a  glance  as  a  doctor  gives  a 
patient  whose  life  is  in  danger.  Then  he  determined  to 
do  all  that  in  him  lay  to  combat  the  evil  spirit  into  whose 
clutches  she  had  fallen. 

1  We  must  live  on  with  our  sorrows — you  see  it  your- 
self, madame,  and  religion  alone  offers  us  real  consolation. 
Will  you  permit  me  to  come  again  ? — to  speak  to  you  as 
a  man  who  can  sympathise  with  every  trouble,  a  man 
about  whom  there  is  nothing  very  alarming,  I  think  ? 9 

c  Yes,  monsieur,  come  back  again.  Thank  you  for 
your  thought  of  me.' 

'  Very  well,  madame  ;  then  I  shall  return  very  shortly.' 

This  visit  relaxed  the  tension  of  soul,  as  it  were  ;  the 
heavy  strain  of  grief  and  loneliness  had  been  almost  too 
much  for  the  Marquise's  strength.  The  priest's  visit  had 
left  a  soothing  balm  in  her  heart,  his  words  thrilled  through 
her  with  healing  influence.  She  began  to  feel  something 
of  a  prisoner's  satisfaction,  when,  after  he  has  had  time 
to  feel  his  utter  loneliness  and  the  weight  of  his  chains, 
he  hears  a  neighbour  knocking  on  the  wall,  and  welcomes 
the  sound  which  brings  a  sense  of  human  fellowship. 
Here  was  an  unhoped-for  confidant.  But  this  feeling 
did  not  last  for  long.  Soon  she  sank  back  into  the  old 
bitterness  of  spirit,  saying  to  herself,  as  the  prisoner  might 
say,  that  a  companion  in  misfortune  could  neither  lighten 
her  own  bondage  nor  her  future. 

In  the  first  visit  the  curé  had  feared  to  alarm  the 
susceptibilities  of  self-absorbed  grief,  in  a  second  inter- 
view he  hoped  to  make  some  progress  towards  religion. 
He  came  back  again  two  days  later,  and  from  the 
Marquise's  welcome  it  was  plain  that  she  had  looked 
forward  to  the  visit. 

cWell,  Mme.  la  Marquise,  have  you  given  a  little 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


thought  to  the  great  mass  of  human  suffering  ?  Have 
you  raised  your  eyes  above  our  earth  and  seen  the 
immensity  of  the  universe  ? — the  worlds  beyond  worlds 
which  crush  our  vanity  into  insignificance,  and  with  our 
vanity  reduce  our  sorrows  ?  ' 

fc  No,  monsieur,'  she  said  ;  4 1  cannot  rise  to  such 
heights,  our  social  laws  lie  too  heavily  upon  me,  and 
rend  my  heart  with  a  too  poignant  anguish.  And  laws 
perhaps  are  less  cruel  than  the  usages  of  the  world. 
Ah  !  the  world  ! 5 

4  Madame,  we  must  obey  both.  Law  is  the  doctrine, 
and  custom  the  practice  of  society.' 

4  Obey  society  ?  '  cried  the  Marquise,  with  an  involun- 
tary shudder.  4  Eh  !  monsieur,  it  is  the  source  of  all 
our  woes.  God  laid  down  no  law  to  make  us  miserable  ; 
but  mankind,  uniting  together  in  social  life,  have 
perverted  God's  work.  Civilisation  deals  harder  measure 
to  us  women  than  nature  does.  Nature  imposes  upon 
us  physical  suffering  which  you  have  not  alleviated  ; 
civilisation  has  developed  in  us  thoughts  and  feelings 
which  you  cheat  continually.  Nature  exterminates  the 
weak;  you  condemn  them  to  live,  and  by  so  doing, 
consign  them  to  a  life  of  misery.  The  whole  weight 
of  the  burden  of  marriage,  an  institution  on  which 
society  is  based,  falls  upon  us;  for  the  man  liberty, 
duties  for  the  woman.  We  must  give  up  our  whole 
lives  to  you,  you  are  only  bound  to  give  us  a  few 
moments  of  yours.  A  man,  in  fact,  makes  a  choice, 
while  we  blindly  submit.  Oh,  monsieur,  to  you  I  can 
speak  freely.  Marriage,  in  these  days,  seems  to  me  to 
be  legalised  prostitution.  This  is  the  cause  of  my 
wretchedness.  But  among  so  many  miserable  creatures 
so  unhappily  yoked,  I  alone  am  bound  to  be  silent,  I 
alone  am  to  blame  for  my  misery.  My  marriage  was 
my  own  doing.' 

She  stopped  short,  and  bitter  tears  fell  in  the  siience. 

4  In  the  depths  of  my  wretchedness,  in  the  midst  of 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


93 


this  sea  of  distress,'  she  went  on,  *  I  found  some  sands 
on  which  to  set  foot  and  suffer  at  leisure.  A  great 
tempest  swept  everything  away.  And  here  am  I, 
helpless  and  alone,  too  weak  to  cope  with  storms.' 

c  We  are  never  weak  while  God  is  with  us/  said  the 
priest.  4  And  if  your  cravings  for  affection  cannot  be 
satisfied  here  on  earth,  have  you  no  duties  to  perform  ?  ' 

c  Duties  continually  !  '  she  exclaimed,  with  something 
of  impatience  in  her  tone.  c  But  where  for  me  are  the 
sentiments  which  give  us  strength  to  perform  them  ? 
Nothing  from  nothing,  nothing  for  nothing, — this, 
monsieur,  is  one  of  the  most  inexorable  laws  of  nature, 
physical  or  spiritual.  Would  you  have  these  trees  break 
into  leaf  without  the  sap  which  swells  the  buds  ?  It  is 
the  same  with  our  human  nature  ;  and  in  me  the  sap  is 
dried  up  at  its  source.' 

i  I  am  not  going  to  speak  to  you  of  religious  sentiments 
of  which  resignation  is  born,'  said  the  curé,  *  but  of 
motherhood,  madame,  surely  ' 

'Stop,  monsieur!'  said  the  Marquise,  4 with  you  I 
will  be  sincere.  Alas  !  in  future  I  can  be  sincere  with 
no  one  ;  I  am  condemned  to  falsehood.  The  world 
requires  continual  grimaces,  and  we  are  bidden  to  obey 
its  conventions  if  we  would  escape  reproach.  There  are 
two  kinds  of  motherhood,  monsieur  ;  once  I  knew  nothing 
of  such  distinctions,  but  I  know  them  now.  Only 
half  of  me  has  become  a  mother  y  it  were  better  for  me 
if  I  had  not  been  a  mother  at  all.  Hélène  is  not  his 
child  !  Oh  !  do  not  start.  At  Saint-Lange  there  are 
volcanic  depths  whence  come  lurid  gleams  of  light  and 
earthquake  shocks  to  shake  the  fragile  edifices  of  laws 
not  based  on  nature.  I  have  borne  a  child,  that  is 
enough,  I  am  a  mother  in  the  eye  of  the  law.  But  you, 
monsieur,  with  your  delicately  compassionate  soul,  can 
perhaps  understand  this  cry  from  an  unhappy  woman  who 
has  suffered  no  lying  illusions  to  enter  her  heart.  God 
will  judge  me,  but  surely  I  have  only  obeyed  His  laws  by 


94 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


giving  way  to  the  affections  which  He  Himself  set  in  me, 
and  this  I  have  learned  from  my  own  soul. — What  is  a 
child,  monsieur,  but  the  image  of  two  beings,  the  fruit 
of  two  sentiments  spontaneously  blended  ?  Unless  it  is 
owned  by  every  fibre  of  the  body,  as  by  every  chord  of 
tenderness  in  the  heart  ;  unless  it  recalls  the  bliss  of  love, 
the  hours,  the  places  where  two  creatures  were  happy, 
their  words  that  overflowed  with  the  music  of  humanity, 
and  their  sweet  imaginings,  that  child  is  an  incomplete 
creation.  Yes,  those  two  should  find  the  poetic  dreams 
of  their  intimate  double  life  realised  in  their  child  as  in 
an  exquisite  miniature  ;  it  should  be  for  them  a  never- 
failing  spring  of  emotion,  implying  their  whole  past  and 
their  whole  future. 

c  My  poor  little  Hélène  is  her  father's  child,  the  offspring 
of  duty  and  of  chance.  In  me  she  finds  nothing  but  the 
affection  of  instinct,  the  woman's  natural  compassion  for 
the  child  of  her  womb.  Socially  speaking,  I  am  above 
reproach.  Have  I  not  sacrificed  my  life  and  my  happi- 
ness to  my  child  ?  Her  cries  go  to  my  heart  ;  if  she 
were  to  fall  into  the  water,  I  should  spring  to  save  her, 
but  she  is  not  in  my  heart. 

?  Ah  !  love  set  me  dreaming  of  a  motherhood  far 
greater  and  more  complete.  In  a  vanished  dream  I  held 
in  my  arms  a  child  conceived  in  desire  before  it  was 
begotten,  the  exquisite  flower  of  life  that  blossoms  in 
the  soul  before  it  sees  the  light  of  day.  I  am  Hélène's 
mother  only  in  the  sense  that  I  brought  her  forth. 
When  she  needs  me  no  longer,  there  will  be  an  end  of 
my  motherhood  ;  with  the  extinction  of  the  cause,  the 
effects  will  cease.  If  it  is  a  woman's  adorable  preroga- 
tive that  her  motherhood  may  last  through  her  child's 
life,  surely  that  divine  persistence  of  sentiment  is  due  to 
the  far-reaching  glory  of  the  conception  of  the  soul  ? 
Unless  a  child  has  lain  wrapped  about  from  life's  first  begin- 
nings by  the  mother's  soul,  the  instinct  of  motherhood 
dies  in  her  as  in  the  animals.    This  is  true  ;  I  feel  that 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


95 


it  is  true.  As  my  poor  little  one  grows  older,  my  heart 
closes.  My  sacrifices  have  driven  us  apart.  And  yet  I 
know,  monsieur,  that  to  another  child  my  heart  would 
have  gone  out  in  inexhaustible  love  ;  for  that  other  I 
should  not  have  known  what  sacrifice  meant,  all  had  been 
delight.  In  this,  monsieur,  my  instincts  are  stronger 
than  reason,  stronger  than  religion  or  all  else  in  me. 
Does  the  woman  who  is  neither  wife  nor  mother  sin  in 
wishing  to  die  when,  for  her  misfortune,  she  has  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  infinite  beauty  of  love,  the  limitless  joy 
of  motherhood  ?  What  can  become  of  her  ?  /  can  tell 
you  what  she  feels.  I  cannot  put  that  memory  from  me 
so  resolutely  but  that  a  hundred  times,  night  and  day, 
visions  of  a  happiness,  greater  it  may  be  than  the 
reality,  rise  before  me,  followed  by  a  shudder  which 
shakes  brain  and  heart  and  body.  Before  these  cruel 
visions,  my  feelings  and  thoughts  grow  colourless,  and  I 
ask  myself,  c  What  would  my  life  have  been  if  ?  ' 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  burst  into  tears. 

c  There  you  see  the  depths  of  my  heart  !  '  she  con- 
tinued. cFor  his  child  I  could  have  acquiesced  in  any 
lot  however  dreadful.  He  who  died,  bearing  the  burden 
of  the  sins  of  the  world,  will  forgive  this  thought  of 
which  I  am  dying  ;  but  the  world,  I  know,  is  merciless. 
In  its  ears  my  words  are  blasphemies  ;  I  am  outraging 
all  its  codes.  Oh  !  that  I  could  wage  war  against  this 
world  and  break  down  and  refashion  its  laws  and  tradi- 
tions !  Has  it  not  turned  all  my  thoughts,  and  feelings, 
and  longings,  and  hopes,  and  every  fibre  in  me  into  so 
many  sources  of  pain  ?  Spoiled  my  future,  present  and 
past  ?  For  me  the  daylight  is  full  of  gloom,  my  thoughts 
pierce  me  like  a  sword,  my  child  is  and  is  not. 

c  Oh,  when  Hélène  speaks  to  me,  I  wish  that  her  voice 
were  different,  when  she  looks  into  my  face  I  wish  that 
she  had  other  eyes.  She  constantly  keeps  me  in  mind  of 
all  that  should  have  been  and  is  not.  I  cannot  bear  to 
have  her  near  me.    I  smile  at  her,  I  try  to  make  up  to 


96 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


her  for  the  real  affection  of  which  she  is  defrauded.  I 
am  wretched,  monsieur,  too  wretched  to  live.  And  I 
am  supposed  to  be  a  pattern  wife.  And  I  have  com- 
mitted no  sins.  And  I  am  respected  !  I  have  fought 
down  forbidden  love  which  sprang  up  at  unawares 
within  me  ;  but  if  I  have  kept  the  letter  of  the  law, 
have  I  kept  it  in  my  heart  ?  There  has  never  been  but 
one  here,'  she  said,  laying  her  right  hand  on  her  breast, 
6  one  and  no  other  ;  and  my  child  feels  it.  Certain 
looks  and  tones  and  gestures  mould  a  child's  nature,  and 
my  poor  little  one  feels  no  thrill  in  the  arm  I  put  about 
her,  no  tremor  comes  into  my  voice,  no  softness  into  my 
eyes  when  I  speak  to  her  or  take  her  up.  She  looks  at 
me,  and  I  cannot  endure  the  reproach  in  her  eyes. 
There  are  times  when  I  shudder  to  think  that  some  day 
she  may  be  my  judge  and  condemn  her  mother 
unheard.  Heaven  grant  that  hate  may  not  grow  up 
between  us  !  Ah  !  God  in  heaven,  rather  let  the  tomb 
open  for  me,  rather  let  me  end  my  days  here  at  Saint- 
Lange  ! — I  want  to  go  back  to  the  world  where  I  shall 
find  my  other  soul  and  become  wholly  a  mother.  Ah  ! 
forgive  me,  sir,  I  am  mad.  Those  words  were  choking 
me  ;  now  they  are  spoken.  Ah  !  you  are  weeping  too  ! 
You  will  not  despise  me  ' 

She  heard  the  child  come  in  from  a  walk.  4  Hélène, 
Hélène,  my  child,  come  here  !  '  she  called.  The  words 
sounded  like  a  cry  of  despair. 

The  little  girl  ran  in,  laughing  and  calling  to  her 
mother  to  see  a  butterfly  which  she  had  caught  ;  but 
at  the  sight  of  that  mother's  tears  she  grew  quiet  of  a 
sudden,  and  went  up  close,  and  received  a  kiss  on  her 
forehead. 

c  She  will  be  very  beautiful  some  day,'  said  the  priest. 

i  She  is  her  father's  child,'  said  the  Marquise,  kissing 
the  little  one  with  eager  warmth,  as  it  she  meant  to  pay 
a  debt  of  affection  or  to  extinguish  some  feeling  of 
remorse. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  97 


€  How  hot  you  are,  mamma  ! ' 

c  There,  go  away,  my  angel,'  said  the  Marquise. 

The  child  went.  She  did  not  seem  at  all  sorry  to 
go  ;  she  did  not  look  back  ;  glad  perhaps  to  escape  from 
a  sad  face,  and  instinctively  comprehending  already  an 
antagonism  of  feeling  in  its  expression.  A  mother's 
love  finds  language  in  smiles  ;  they  are  a  part  of  the 
divine  right  of  motherhood.  The  Marquise  could  not 
smile.  She  flushed  red  as  she  felt  the  cure's  eyes.  She 
had  hoped  to  act  a  mother's  part  before  him,  but  neither 
she  nor  her  child  could  deceive  him.  And,  indeed,  when 
a  woman  loves  sincerely,  in  the  kiss  she  gives  there  is  a 
divine  honey  ;  it  is  as  if  a  soul  were  breathed  forth  in  the 
caress,  a  subtle  flame  of  fire  which  brings  warmth  to  the 
heart  ;  the  kiss  that  lacks  this  delicious  unction  is  meagre 
and  formal.  The  priest  had  felt  the  difference.  He 
could  fathom  the  depths  that  lie  between  the  mother- 
hood of  the  flesh  and  the  motherhood  of  the  heart. 
He  gave  the  Marquise  a  keen,  scrutinising  glance,  then  he 
said — 

4 You  are  right,  madame;  it  would  be  better  for  you 
if  you  were  dead  ' 

'  Ah  !  '  she  cried,  c  then  you  know  all  my  misery  ;  I 
see  you  do  if,  Christian  priest  as  you  are,  you  can  guess 
my  determination  to  die  and  sanction  it.  Yes,  I  meant 
to  die,  but  I  have  lacked  the  courage.  The  spirit  was 
strong,  but  the  flesh  was  weak,  and  when  my  hand  did 
not  tremble,  the  spirit  within  me  wavered. 

'I  do  not  know  the  reason  of  these  inner  struggles, 
and  alternations.  I  am  very  pitiably  a  woman  no 
doubt,  weak  in  my  will,  strong  only  to  love.  Oh,  I 
despise  myself.  At  night,  when  all  my  household  was 
asleep,  I  would  go  out  bravely  as  far  as  the  lake  ;  but 
when  I  stood  on  the  brink,  my  cowardice  shrank  from 
self-destruction.  To  you  I  will  confess  my  weakness. 
When  I  lay  in  my  bed,  again,  shame  would  come  over 
me,  and  courage  would  come  back.    Once  I  took  a  dose 


98  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

of  laudanum  ;  I  was  ill,  but  I  did  not  die.  I  thought 
I  had  emptied  the  phial,  but  I  had  only  taken  half 

the  dose.' 

c  You  are  lost,  madame,'  the  curé  said  gravely,  with 
tears  in  his  voice.  4  You  will  go  back  into  the  world, 
and  you  will  deceive  the  v/orld.  You  will  seek  and  find 
a  compensation  (as  you  imagine  it  to  be)  for  your 
woes  ;  then  will  come  a  day  of  reckoning  for  your 
pleasures  1 

c  Do  you  think,'  she  cried,  'that  /  shall  bestow  the 
last,  the  most  precious  treasures  of  my  heart  upon  the 
first  base  impostor  who  can  play  the  comedy  of  passion  ? 
That  I  would  pollute  my  life  for  a  moment  of  doubtful 
pleasure  ?  No  ;  the  flame  which  shall  consume  my  soul 
shall  be  love,  and  nothing  but  love.  All  men,  monsieur, 
have  the  senses  of  their  sex,  but  not  all  have  the  man's 
soul  which  satisfies  all  the  requirements  of  our  nature, 
drawing  out  the  melodious  harmony  which  never  breaks 
forth  save  in  response  to  the  pressure  of  feeling.  Such  a 
soul  is  not  found  twice  in  our  lifetime.  The  future 
that  lies  before  me  is  hideous  ;  I  know  it.  A  woman  is 
nothing  without  love  ;  beauty  is  nothing  without  plea- 
sure. And  even  if  happiness  were  offered  to  me  a  second 
time,  would  not  the  world  frown  upon  it  ?  I  owe  my 
daughter  an  honoured  mother.  Oh  !  I  am  condemned 
to  live  in  an  iron  circle,  from  which  there  is  but  one 
shameful  way  of  escape.  The  round  of  family  duties,  a 
thankless  and  irksome  task,  is  in  store  for  me.  I  shall 
curse  life  ;  but  my  child  shall  have  at  least  a  fair  sem- 
blance of  a  mother.  I  will  give  her  treasures  of  virtue 
for  the  treasures  of  love  of  which  I  defraud  her. 

*  I  have  not  even  the  mother's  desire  to  live  to  enjoy 
her  child's  happiness.  I  have  no  belief  in  happiness. 
What  will  Hélène's  fate  be  ?  My  own,  beyond  doubt. 
How  can  a  mother  ensure  that  the  man  to  whom  she 
gives  her  daughter  will  be  the  husband  of  her  heart  ? 
You  pour  scorn  on  the  miserable  creatures  who  sell  them- 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


99 


selves  for  a  few  coins  to  any  passer-by,  though  want  and 
hunger  absolve  the  brief  union  ;  while  another  union, 
horrible  for  quite  other  reasons,  is  tolerated,  nay,  encour- 
aged, by  society,  and  a  young  and  innocent  girl  is  married 
to  a  man  whom  she  has  only  met  occasionally  during  the 
previous  three  months.  She  is  sold  for  her  whole  life- 
time. It  is  true  that  the  price  is  high  !  If  you  allow 
her  no  compensation  for  her  sorrows,  you  might  at  least 
respect  her  ;  but  no,  the  most  virtuous  of  women  cannot 
escape  calumny.  This  is  our  fate  in  its  double  aspect. 
Open  prostitution  and  shame  ;  secret  prostitution  and 
unhappiness.  As  for  the  poor,  portionless  girls,  they 
may  die  or  go  mad,  without  a  soul  to  pity  them.  Beauty 
and  virtue  are  not  marketable  in  the  bazaar  where  souls 
and  bodies  are  bought  and  sold — in  the  den  of  selfishness 
which  you  call  society.  Why  not  disinherit  daughters  ? 
Then,  at  least,  you  might  fulfil  one  of  the  laws  of 
nature,  and  guided  by  your  own  inclinations,  choose  your 
companions.' 

'  Madame,  from  your  talk  it  is  clear  to  me  that  neither 
the  spirit  of  family  nor  the  sense  of  religion  appeals  to 
you.  Why  should  you  hesitate  between  the  claims  of 
the  social  selfishness  which  irritates  you,  and  the  purely 
personal  selfishness  which  craves  satisfactions  ' 

'  The  family,  monsieur — does  such  a  thing  exist  ?  I 
decline  to  recognise  as  a  family  a  knot  of  individuals 
bidden  by  society  to  divide  the  property  after  the  death 
of  father  and  mother,  and  to  go  their  separate  ways.  A 
family  means  a  temporary  association  of  persons  brought 
together  by  no  will  of  their  own,  dissolved  at  once  by 
death.  Our  laws  have  broken  up  homes  and  estates, 
and  the  old  family  tradition  handed  down  from  genera- 
tion to  generation.  I  see  nothing  but  wreck  and  ruin 
about  me.' 

'Madame,  you  will  only  return  to  God  when  His 
hand  has  been  heavy  upon  you,  and  I  pray  that  you  have 
j  time  enough  given  to  you  in  which  to  make  your  peace 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


with  Him.  instead  of  looking  to  heaven  for  comfort, 
you  are  fixing  your  eyes  on  earth.  Philosophism  and 
personal  interest  have  invaded  your  heart  ;  like  the  chil- 
dren of  the  sceptical  eighteenth  century,  you  are  deaf  to 
the  voice  of  religion.  The  pleasures  of  this  life  bring 
nothing  but  misery.  You  are  about  to  make  an  exchange 
of  sorrows,  that  is  all.' 
She  smiled  bitterly. 

4 1  will  falsify  your  predictions/  she  said.  4 1  shall  be 
faithful  to  him  who  died  for  me.' 

c  Sorrow,'  he  answered,  c  is  not  likely  to  live  long  save 
in  souls  disciplined  by  religion,'  and  he  lowered  his  eyes 
respectfully  lest  the  Marquise  should  read  his  doubts  in 
them.  The  energy  of  her  outburst  had  grieved  him. 
He  had  seen  the  self  that  lurked  beneath  so  many  forms, 
and  despaired  of  softening  a  heart  which  affliction  seemed 
to  sear.  The  divine  Sower's  seed  could  not  take  root  in 
such  a  soil,  and  His  gentle  voice  was  drowned  by  the 
clamorous  outcry  of  self-çity.  Yet  the  good  man  re- 
turned again  and  again  with  an  apostle's  earnest  persist- 
ence, brought  back  by  a  hope  of  leading  so  noble  and 
proud  a  soul  to  God  ;  until  the  day  when  he  made  the 
discovery  that  the  Marquise  only  cared  to  talk  with  him 
because  it  was  sweet  to  speak  of  him  who  was  no  more. 
He  would  not  lower  his  ministry  by  condoning  her 
passion,  and  confined  the  conversation  more  and  more  to 
generalities  and  commonplaces. 

Spring  came,  and  with  the  spring  the  Marquise  found 
distraction  from  her  deep  melancholy.  She  busied  her- 
self for  lack  of  other  occupation  with  her  estate,  making 
improvements  for  amusement. 

In  October  she  left  the  old  chateau.  In  the  life  of 
leisure  at  Saint-Lange  she  had  recovered  from  her  grief 
and  grown  fair  and  fresh.  Her  grief  had  been  violent  at 
first  in  its  course,  as  the  quoit  hurled  forth  with  all  the 
player's  strength,  and  like  the  quoit  after  many  oscilla- 
tions, each  feebler  than  the  last,  it  had  slackened  into 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


IOI 


melancholy.  Melancholy  is  made  up  of  a  succession  of 
such  oscillations,  the  first  touching  upon  despair,  the  last 
on  the  border  between  pain  and  pleasure  ;  in  youth,  it  is 
the  twilight  of  dawn  ;  in  age,  the  dusk  of  night. 

As  the  Marquise  drove  through  the  village  in  her 
travelling  carriage,  she  met  the  curé  on  his  way  back 
from  the  church.  She  bowed  in  response  to  his  farewell 
greeting,  but  it  was  with  lowered  eyes  and  averted  face. 
She  did  not  wish  to  see  him  again.  The  village  curé 
had  judged  this  poor  Diana  of  Ephesus  only  too  well. 


Ill 

AT  THIRTY  YEARS 

Madame  Firmiani  was  giving  a  ball.   M.  Charles  de 
I  Vandenesse,  a  young  man  of  great  promise,  the  bearer  of 
one  of  those  historic  names  which,  in  spite  of  the  efforts 
of  legislation,  are  always  associated  with  the  glory  of 
\  France,  had  received  letters  of  introduction  to  some  of 
the  great  lady's  friends  in  Naples,  and  had  come  to 
I  thank  the  hostess  and  to  take  his  leave. 

Vandenesse  had  already  acquitted  himself  creditably  on 
several  diplomatic  missions  ;  and  now  that  he  had  received 
an  appointment  as  attaché  to  a  plenipotentiary  at  the 
Congress  of  Laybach,  he  wished  to  take  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  to  make  some  study  of  Italy  on  the  way. 
This  ball  was  a  sort  of  farewell  to  Paris  and  its  amuse- 
i  ments  and  its  rapid  whirl  of  life,  to  the  great  eddying 
'  intellectual  centre  and  maelstrom  of  pleasure  ;  and  a 
:  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  be  borne  along  by  the  current  of 
:  this  sufficiently  slandered  great  city  of  Paris.  Yet 
!  Charles  de  Vandenesse  had  little  to  regret,  accustomed  as 
.  he  had  been  for  the  past  three  years  to  salute  European 
)  capitals  and  turn  his  back  upon  them  at  the  capricious 


I02 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


bidding  of  a  diplomatist's  destiny.  Women  no  longer 
made  any  impression  upon  him  ;  perhaps  he  thought  that 
a  real  passion  would  play  too  large  a  part  in  a  diplo- 
matist's life  ;  or  perhaps  that  the  paltry  amusements  of 
frivolity  were  too  empty  for  a  man  of  strong  character. 
We  all  of  us  have  huge  claims  to  strength  of  character. 
There  is  no  man  in  France,  be  he  never  so  ordinary  a 
member  of  the  rank  and  file  of  humanity,  that  will  waive 
pretensions  to  something  beyond  mere  cleverness. 

Charles,  young  though  he  was — he  was  scarcely  turned 
thirty — looked  at  life  with  a  philosophic  mind,  concern- 
ing himself  with  theories  and  means  and  ends,  while 
other  men  of  his  age  were  thinking  of  pleasure,  senti- 
ments, and  the  like  illusions.  He  forced  back  into  some 
inner  depth  the  generosity  and  enthusiasms  of  youth,  and 
by  nature  he  was  generous.  He  tried  hard  to  be  cool 
and  calculating,  to  coin  the  fund  of  wealth  which  I 
chanced  to  be  in  his  nature  into  gracious  manners,  and 
courtesy,  and  attractive  arts  ;  'tis  the  proper  task  of  an 
ambitious  man,  to  play  a  sorry  part  to  gain  i  a  good 
position,'  as  we  call  it  in  modern  days. 

He  had  been  dancing,  and  now  he  gave  a  farewell 
glance  over  the  rooms,  to  carry  away  a  distinct  impres- 
sion of  the  ball,  moved,  doubtless,  to  some  extent  by  the  j 
feeling  which  prompts  a  theatre-goer  to  stay  in  his  box 
to  see  the  final  tableau  before  the  curtain  falls.  But 
M.  de  Vandenesse  had  another  reason  for  his  survey. 
He  gazed  curiously  at  the  scene  before  him,  so  French  in 
character  and  in  movement,  seeking  to  carry  away  a  pic- 
ture of  the  light  and  laughter  and  the  faces  at  this  Parisian 
fête,  to  compare  with  novel  faces  and  picturesque  sur- 
roundings awaiting  him  at  Naples,  where  he  meant  to 
spend  a  few  days  before  presenting  himself  at  his  post. 
He  seemed  to  be  drawing  the  comparison  now  between 
this  France  so  variable,  changing  even  as  you  study  her, 
with  the  manners  and  aspects  of  that  other  land  known 
to  him  as  yet  only  by  contradictory  hearsay  tales  or 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


books  of  travel,  for  the  most  part  unsatisfactory. 
Thoughts  of  a  somewhat  poetical  cast,  albeit  hackneyed 
and  trite  to  our  modern  ideas,  crossed  his  brain,  in 
response  to  some  longing  of  which,  perhaps,  he  himself 
was  hardly  conscious,  a  desire  in  the  depths  of  a  heart 
fastidious  rather  than  jaded,  vacant  rather  than  seared. 

c  These  are  the  wealthiest  and  most  fashionable  women 
and  the  greatest  ladies  in  Paris,'  he  said  to  himself. 
4  These  are  the  great  men  of  the  day,  great  orators  and 
men  of  letters,  great  names  and  titles  ;  artists  and  men 
in  power  ;  and  yet  in  it  all  it  seems  to  me  as  if  there 
were  nothing  but  petty  intrigues  and  still-born  loves, 
meaningless  smiles  and  causeless  scorn,  eyes  lighted  by 
no  flame  within,  brain-power  in  abundance  running 
aimlessly  to  waste.  All  those  pink-and-white  faces 
are  here  not  so  much  for  enjoyment,  as  to  escape  from 
dulness.  None  of  the  emotion  is  genuine.  If  you 
ask  for  nothing  but  court  feathers  properly  adjusted, 
fresh  gauzes  and  pretty  toilettes  and  fragile,  fair  women, 
if  you  desire  simply  to  skim  the  surface  of  life,  here  is 
your  world  for  you.  Be  content  with  meaningless 
phrases  and  fascinating  simpers,  and  do  not  ask  for  real 
feeling.  For  my  own  part,  I  abhor  the  stale  intrigues 
which  end  in  sub-prefectures  and  receiver-generals'  places 
and  marriages  ;  or,  if  love  comes  into  the  question,  in 
stealthy  compromises,  so  ashamed  are  we  of  the  mere 
semblance  of  passion.  Not  a  single  one  of  all  these 
eloquent  faces  tells  you  of  a  soul,  a  soul  wholly  absorbed 
by  one  idea  as  by  remorse.  Regrets  and  misfortune  go 
about  shamefacedly  clad  in  jests.  There  is  not  one 
woman  here  whose  resistance  I  should  care  to  overcome, 
not  one  who  could  drag  you  down  to  the  pit.  Where 
will  you  find  energy  in  Paris  ?  A  poniard  here  is  a  curious 
toy  to  hang  from  a  gilt  nail,  in  a  picturesque  sheath  to 
match.  The  women,  the  brains,  and  hearts  of  Paris  are 
all  on  a  par.  There  is  no  passion  left,  because  we  have 
no  individuality.    High  birth  and  intellect  and  fortune 


i04  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

are  all  reduced  to  one  level  ;  we  all  have  taken  to  the 
uniform  black  coat  by  way  of  mourning  for  a  dead 
France.  There  is  no  love  between  equals.  Between 
two  lovers  there  should  be  differences  to  efface,  wide 
gulfs  to  fill.  The  charm  of  love  fled  from  us  in  1789. 
Our  dulness  and  our  humdrum  lives  are  the  outcome 
of  the  political  system.  Italy  at  any  rate  is  the  land  of 
sharp  contrasts.  Woman  there  is  a  malevolent  animal, 
a  dangerous  unreasoning  siren,  guided  only  by  her  tastes 
and  appetites,  a  creature  no  more  to  be  trusted  than  a 
tiger  1 

Mme.  Firmiani  here  came  up  to  interrupt  this  soliloquy 
made  up  of  vague,  conflicting,  and  fragmentary  thoughts 
which  cannot  be  reproduced  in  words.  The  whole  charm 
of  such  musing  lies  in  its  vagueness — what  is  it  but  a  sort 
of  mental  haze  ? 

c  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  some  one  who  has  the 
greatest  wish  to  make  your  acquaintance,  after  all  that 
she  has  heard  of  you,'  said  the  lady,  taking  his  arm. 

She  brought  him  into  the  next  room,  and  with  such 
a  smile  and  glance  as  a  Parisienne  alone  can  give,  she- 
indicated  a  woman  sitting  by  the  hearth. 

6  Who  is  she  ? 1  the  Comte  de  Vandenesse  asked 
quickly. 

c  You  have  heard  her  name  more  than  once  coupled 
with  praise  or  blame.  She  is  a  woman  who  lives  in 
seclusion — a  perfect  mystery.' 

6  Oh  !  if  ever  you  have  been  merciful  in  your  life,  for 
pity's  sake  tell  me  her  name.' 

i  She  is  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont.' 

c  I  will  take  lessons  from  her  ;  she  has  managed  to 
make  a  peer  of  France  of  that  eminently  ordinary  person 
her  husband,  and  a  dullard  into  a  power  in  the  land. 
But,  pray  tell  me  this,  did  Lord  Grenville  die  for  her 
sake,  do  you  think,  as  some  women  say  ?  ' 

c  Possibly,  Since  that  adventure,  real  or  imaginary, 
she  is  very  much  changed,  poor  thing  !    She  has  not 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  105 

gone  into  society  since.    Four  years  of  constancy — that 

is  something  in  Paris.    If  she  is  here  to-night  ' 

Here  Mme.  Firmiani  broke  off,  adding  with  a  mysteri- 
ous expression,  (I  am  forgetting  that  I  must  say  nothing. 
Go  and  talk  with  her.' 

For  a  moment  Charles  stood  motionless,  leaning  lightly 
against  the  frame  of  the  doorway,  wholly  absorbed  in  his 
scrutiny  of  a  woman  who  had  become  famous,  no  one 
exactly  knew  how  or  why.  Such  curious  anomalies  are 
frequent  enough  in  the  world.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's 
reputation  was  certainly  no  more  extraordinary  than 
plenty  of  other  great  reputations.  There  are  men  who 
are  always  in  travail  of  some  great  work  which  never 
sees  the  light,  statisticians  held  to  be  profound  on  the 
score  of  calculations  which  they  take  very  good  care  not 
to  publish,  politicians  who  live  on  a  newspaper  article, 
men  of  letters  and  artists  whose  performances  are  never 
given  to  the  world,  men  of  science  who  pass  current 
among  those  who  know  nothing  of  science,  much  as 
Sganarelle  is  a  Latinist  for  those  who  know  no  Latin; 
there  are  the  men  who  are  allowed  by  general  consent  to 
possess  a  peculiar  capacity  for  some  one  thing,  be  it  for 
the  direction  of  arts,  or  for  the  conduct  of  an  important 
mission.  The  admirable  phrase,  c  A  man  with  a  special 
subject,'  might  have  been  invented  on  purpose  for  these 
acephalous  species  in  the  domain  of  literature  and  politics. 

Charles  gazed  longer  than  he  intended.  He  was 
vexed  with  himself  for  feeling  so  strongly  interested  ;  it 
is  true,  however,  that  the  lady's  appearance  was  a  refuta- 
tion of  the  young  man's  ballroom  generalisations. 

The  Marquise  had  reached  her  thirtieth  year.  She 
was  beautiful  in  spite  of  her  fragile  form  and  extremely 
delicate  look.  Her  greatest  charm  lay  in  her  still  face, 
revealing  unfathomed  depths  of  soul.  Some  haunting, 
ever-present  thought  veiled,  as  it  were,  the  full  brilliance 
of  eyes  which  told  of  a  fevered  life  and  boundless  resigna- 
tion.   So  seldom  did  she  raise  the  eyelids  soberly  down- 


io6 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


cast,  and  so  listless  were  her  glances,  that  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  the  fire  in  her  eyes  were  reserved  for  some 
occult  contemplation.  Any  man  of  genius  and  feeling 
must  have  felt  strangely  attracted  by  her  gentleness  and 
silence.  If  the  mind  sought  to  explain  the  mysterious 
problem  of  a  constant  inward  turning  from  the  present 
to  the  past,  the  soul  was  no  less  interested  in  initiating 
itself  into  the  secrets  of  a  heart  proud  in  some  sort  of  its 
anguish.  Everything  about  her,  moreover,  was  in  keep- 
ing with  these  thoughts  which  she  inspired.  Like 
almost  all  women  who  have  very  long  hair,  she  was  very 
pale  and  perfectly  white.  The  marvellous  fineness  of 
her  skin  (that  almost  unerring  sign)  indicated  a  quick 
sensibility  which  could  be  seen  yet  more  unmistakably  in 
her  features  ;  there  was  the  same  minute  and  wonderful 
delicacy  of  finish  in  them  that  the  Chinese  artist  gives 
to  his  fantastic  figures.  Perhaps  her  neck  was  rather  too 
long,  but  such  necks  belong  to  the  most  graceful  type, 
and  suggest  vague  affinities  between  a  woman's  head  and 
the  magnetic  curves  of  the  serpent.  Leave  not  a  single 
one  of  the  thousand  signs  and  tokens  by  which  the  most 
inscrutable  character  betrays  itself  to  an  observer  of 
human  nature,  he  has  but  to  watch  carefully  the  little 
movements  of  a  woman's  head,  the  ever-varying  ex- 
pressive turns  and  curves  of  her  neck  and  throat,  to  read 
her  nature. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  dress  harmonised  with  the  haunt- 
ing thought  that  informed  the  whole  woman.  Her  hair 
was  gathered  up  into  a  tall  coronet  of  broad  plaits,  with- 
out ornament  of  any  kind  ;  she  seemed  to  have  bidden 
farewell  for  ever  to  elaborate  toilettes.  Nor  were  any 
of  the  small  arts  of  coquetry  which  spoil  so  many  women 
to  be  detected  in  her.  Perhaps  her  bodice,  modest 
though  it  was,  did  not  altogether  conceal  the  dainty 
grace  of  her  figure,  perhaps,  too,  her  gown  looked  rich 
from  the  extreme  distinction  of  its  fashion  ;  and  if  it  is 
permissible  to  look  for  expression  in  the  arrangement  of 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


1 07 


stuffs,  surely  those  numerous  straight  folds  invested  her 
with  a  great  dignity.  There  may  have  been  some 
lingering  trace  of  the  indelible  feminine  foible  in  the 
minute  care  bestowed  upon  her  hand  and  foot;  yet,  if  she 
allowed  them  to  be  seen  with  some  pleasure,  it  would 
have  tasked  the  utmost  malice  of  a  rival  to  discover  any 
affectation  in  her  gestures,  so  natural  did  they  seem,  so 
much  a  part  of  old  childish  habit,  that  her  careless  grace 
absolved  this  vestige  of  vanity. 

All  these  little  characteristics,  the  nameless  trifles 
which  combine  to  make  up  the  sum  of  a  woman's 
prettiness  or  ugliness,  her  charm  or  lack  of  charm,  can 
only  be  indicated,  when,  as  with  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  a 
personality  dominates  and  gives  coherence  to  the  details, 
informing  them,  blending  them  all  in  an  exquisite 
whole.  Her  manner  was  perfectly  in  accord  with  her 
style  of  beauty  and  her  dress.  Only  to  certain  women 
at  a  certain  age  is  it  given  to  put  language  into  their 
attitude.  Is  it  joy  or  is  it  sorrow  that  teaches  a  woman 
of  thirty  the  secret  of  that  eloquence  of  carriage,  so  that 
she  must  always  remain  an  enigma  which  each  interprets 
by  the  aid  of  his  hopes,  desires,  or  theories  ? 

The  way  in  which  the  Marquise  leaned  both  elbows 
on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  the  toying  of  her  interclasped 
fingers,  the  curve  of  her  throat,  the  indolent  lines  of  her 
languid  but  lissome  body  as  she  lay  back  in  graceful 
exhaustion,  as  it  were;  her  indolent  limbs,  her  unstudied 
pose,  the  utter  lassitude  of  her  movements, — all  suggested 
that  this  was  a  woman  for  whom  life  had  lost  its  interest, 
a  woman  who  had  known  the  joys  of  love  only  in  dreams, 
a  woman  bowed  down  by  the  burden  of  memories  of  the 
past,  a  woman  who  had  long  since  despaired  of  the 
future  and  despaired  of  herself,  an^  unoccupied  woman 
who  took  the  emptiness  of  her  own  life  for  the  nothing- 
ness of  life. 

Charles  de  Vandenesse  saw  and  admired  the  beautiful 
N  picture  before  him,  as  a  kind  of  artistic  success  beyond 


io8 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


an  ordinary  woman's  powers  of  attainment.  He  was 
acquainted  with  d'Aiglemont;  and  now,  at  the  first  sight 
of  d'Aiglemont's  wife,  the  young  diplomatist  saw  at  a 
glance  a  disproportionate  marriage,  an  incompatibility 
(to  use  the  legal  jargon)  so  great  that  it  was  impossible 
that  the  Marquise  should  love  her  husband.  And  yet — 
the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont's  life  was  above  reproach,  and 
for  any  observer  the  mystery  about  her  was  the  more 
interesting  on  this  account.  The  first  impulse  of  sur- 
prise over,  Vandenesse  cast  about  for  the  best  way  of 
approaching  Mme.  d'Aiglemont.  He  would  try  a 
commonplace  piece  of  diplomacy,  he  thought  ;  he  would 
disconcert  her  by  a  piece  of  clumsiness  and  see  how  she 
would  receive  it. 

*  Madame,'  he  said,  seating  himself  near  her,  c  through 
a  fortunate  indiscretion  I  have  learned  that,  for  some 
reason  unknown  to  me,  I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to 
attract  your  notice.  I  owe  you  the  more  thanks  because 
I  have  never  been  so  honoured  before,  At  the  same 
time,  you  are  responsible  for  one  of  my  faults,  for  I  mean 
never  to  be  modest  again  ' 

c  You  will  make  a  mistake,  monsieur,'  she  laughed  ; 
c  vanity  should  be  left  to  those  who  have  nothing  else  to 
recommend  them.' 

The  conversation  thus  opened  ranged  at  large,  in  the 
usual  way,  over  a  multitude  of  topics — art  and  literature, 
politics,  men  and  things — till  insensibly  they  fell  to  talking 
of  the  eternal  theme  in  France  and  all  the  world  over — 
love,  sentiment,  and  women. 

c  We  are  bond-slaves.' 

*  You  are  queens.' 

This  was  the  gist  and  substance  of  all  the  more  or  less 
ingenious  discourse  between  Charles  and  the  Marquise, 
as  of  all  such  discourses — past,  present,  and  to  come. 
Allow  a  certain  space  of  time,  and  the  two  formulas 
shall  begin  to  mean  i  Love  me,'  and  1  I  will  love  you.' 

*  Madame,'  Charles  de  Vandenesse  exclaimed  under 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


his  breath,  c  you  have  made  me  bitterly  regret  that  I  am 
leaving  Paris.  In  Italy  I  certainly  shall  not  pass  hours 
in  intellectual  enjoyment  such  as  this  has  been.' 

c  Perhaps,  monsieur,  you  will  find  happiness,  and 
happiness  is  worth  more  than  all  the  brilliant  things, 
true  and  false,  that  are  said  every  evening  in  Paris.' 

Before  Charles  took  leave,  he  asked  permission  to  pay 
a  farewell  call  on  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont,  and  very 
lucky  did  he  feel  himself  when  the  form  of  words  in 
which  he  expressed  himself  for  once  was  used  in  all 
sincerity  ;  and  that  night,  and  all  day  long  on  the 
morrow,  he  could  not  put  the  thought  of  the  Marquise 
out  of  his  mind. 

At  times  he  wondered  why  she  had  singled  him  out, 
what  she  had  meant  when  she  asked  him  to  come  to  see 
her,  and  thought  supplied  an  inexhaustible  commentary. 
Again  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  discovered  the 
motives  of  her  curiosity,  and  he  grew  intoxicated  with 
hope  or  frigidly  sober  with  each  new  construction  put 
upon  that  piece  of  commonplace  civility.  Sometimes  it 
meant  everything,  sometimes  nothing.  He  made  up  his 
mind  at  last  that  he  would  not  yield  to  this  inclination, 
and — went  to  call  on  Mme.  d'Aiglemont. 

There  are  thoughts  which  determine  our  conduct, 
while  we  do  not  so  much  as  suspect  their  existence.  If 
at  first  sight  this  assertion  appears  to  be  less  a  truth 
than  a  paradox,  let  any  candid  inquirer  look  into  his  own 
life  and  he  shall  find  abundant  confirmation  therein. 
Charles  went  to  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  and  so  obeyed  one 
of  these  latent,  pre-existent  germs  of  thought,  of  which 
our  experience  and  our  intellectual  gains  and  achieve- 
ments are  but  later  and  tangible  developments. 

For  a  young  man  a  woman  of  thirty  has  irresistible 
attractions.  There  is  nothing  more  natural,  nothing 
better  established,  no  human  tie  of  stouter  tissue  than 
the  heart-deep  attachment  between  such  a  woman  as 
the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont  and  such  a  man  as  Charles  de 


no 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


Vandenesse.  You  can  see  examples  of  it  every  day  în 
the  world.  A  girl,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  has  too  many 
young  illusions,  she  is  too  inexperienced,  the  instinct  of 
sex  counts  for  too  much  in  her  love  for  a  young  man  to 
feel  flattered  by  it.  A  woman  of  thirty  knows  all  that 
is  involved  in  the  self-surrender  to  be  made.  Among 
the  impulses  of  the  first,  put  curiosity  and  other  motives 
than  love  ;  the  second  acts  with  integrity  of  sentiment. 
The  first  yields  ;  the  second  makes  deliberate  choice, 
Is  not  that  choice  in  itself  an  immense  flattery  ?  A 
woman  armed  with  experience,  forewarned  by  know- 
ledge, almost  always  dearly  bought,  seems  to  give  more 
than  herself  ;  while  the  inexperienced  and  credulous  girl, 
unable  to  draw  comparisons  for  lack  of  knowledge,  can 
appreciate  nothing  at  its  just  worth.  She  accepts  love 
and  ponders  it.  A  woman  is  a  counsellor  and  a  guide 
at  an  age  when  we  love  to  be  guided  and  obedience  is 
delight  ;  while  a  girl  would  fain  learn  all  things,  meeting 
us  with  a  girl's  naivete  instead  of  a  woman's  tenderness. 
She  affords  a  single  triumph  ;  with  a  woman  there  is 
resistance  upon  resistance  to  overcome  ;  she  has  but 
joy  and  tears,  a  woman  has  rapture  and  remorse. 

A  girl  cannot  play  the  part  of  a  mistress  unless  she  is 
so  corrupt  that  we  turn  from  her  with  loathing  ;  a 
woman  has  a  thousand  ways  of  preserving  her  power  and 
her  dignity  ;  she  has  risked  so  much  for  love,  that  she 
must  bid  him  pass  through  his  myriad  transformations, 
while  her  too  submissive  rival  gives  a  sense  of  too  serene 
security  which  palls.  If  the  one  sacrifices  her  maidenly 
pride,  the  other  immolates  the  honour  of  a  whole  family. 
A  girl's  coquetry  is  of  the  simplest,  she  thinks  that  all  is 
said  when  the  veil  is  laid  aside  ;  a  woman's  coquetry  is 
endless,  she  shrouds  herself  in  veil  after  veil,  she  satisfies 
every  demand  of  man's  vanity,  the  novice  responds  but 
to  one. 

And  there  are  terrors,  fears,  and  hesitations — trouble 
and  storm  in  the  love  of  a  woman  of  thirty  years,  never 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


in 


to  be  found  in  a  young  girl's  love.  At  thirty  years  a 
woman  asks  her  lover  to  give  her  back  the  esteem  she 
has  forfeited  for  his  sake  ;  she  lives  only  for  him,  her 
thoughts  are  full  of  his  future,  he  must  have  a  great 
career,  she  bids  him  make  it  glorious  ;  she  can  obey, 
entreat,  command,  humble  herself,  or  rise  in  pride  ; 
times  without  number  she  brings  comfort  when  a  young 
girl  can  only  make  moan.  And  with  all  the  advantages 
of  her  position,  the  woman  of  thirty  can  be  a  girl  again, 
for  she  can  play  all  parts,  assume  a  girl's  bashfulness,  and 
grow  the  fairer  even  for  a  mischance. 

Between  these  two  feminine  types  lies  the  immeasur- 
able difference  which  separates  the  foreseen  from  the 
unforeseen,  strength  from  weakness.  The  woman  of 
thirty  satisfies  every  requirement  ;  the  young  girl  must 
satisfy  none,  under  penalty  of  ceasing  to  be  a  young  girl. 
Such  ideas  as  these,  developing  in  a  young  man's  mind, 
help  to  strengthen  the  strongest  of  all  passions,  a  passion 
in  which  all  spontaneous  and  natural  reeling  is  blended 
with  the  artificial  sentiment  created  by  conventional 
manners. 

The  most  important  and  decisive  step  in  a  woman's 
life  is  the  very  one  that  she  invariably  regards  as  the 
most  insignificant.  After  her  marriage  she  is  no  longer 
her  own  mistress,  she  is  the  queen  and  the  bond-slave  of 
the  domestic  hearth.  The  sanctity  of  womanhood  is 
incompatible  with  social  liberty  and  social  claims  ;  and 
for  a  woman  emancipation  means  corruption.  If  you 
give  a  stranger  the  right  of  entry  into  the  sanctuary  of 
home,  do  you  not  put  yourself  at  his  mercy  ?  How  then 
if  she  herself  bids  him  enter  in  ?  Is  not  this  an  offence, 
or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  a  first  step  towards  an 
offence  ?  You  must  either  accept  this  theory  with  all 
its  consequences,  or  absolve  illicit  passion.  French 
society  hitherto  has  chosen  the  third  and  middle  course 
of  looking  on  and  laughing  when  offences  come, 
apparently  upon  the  Spartan  principle  of  condoning 


112 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


the  theft  and  punishing  clumsiness.  And  this  system, 
it  may  be,  is  a  very  wise  one.  'Tis  a  most  appalling 
punishment  to  have  all  your  neighbours  pointing  the 
finger  of  scorn  at  you,  a  punishment  that  a  woman  feels 
in  her  very  heart.  Women  are  tenacious,  and  all  of 
them  should  be  tenacious  of  respect  ;  without  esteem 
they  cannot  exist,  esteem  is  the  first  demand  that  they 
make  of  love.  The  most  corrupt  among  them  feels  that 
she  must,  in  the  first  place,  pledge  the  future  to  buy  absolu- 
tion for  the  past,  and  strives  to  make  her  lover  understand 
that  only  for  irresistible  bliss  can  she  barter  the  respect 
which  the  world  henceforth  will  refuse  to  her. 

Some  such  reflections  cross  the  mind  of  any  woman 
who  for  the  first  time  and  alone  receives  a  visit  from  a 
young  man  ;  and  this  especially  when,  like  Charles  de 
Vandenesse,  the  visitor  is  handsome  or  clever.  And 
similarly  there  are  not  many  young  men  who  would  fail 
to  base  some  secret  wish  on  one  of  the  thousand  and 
one  ideas  which  justify  the  instinct  that  attracts  them  to 
a  beautiful,  witty,  and  unhappy  woman  like  the  Mar- 
quise d'Aiglemont. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  therefore,  felt  troubled  when  M. 
de  Vandenesse  was  announced  ;  and  as  for  him,  he  was 
almost  confused  in  spite  of  the  assurance  which  is  like 
a  matter  of  costume  for  a  diplomatist.  But  not  for  long. 
The  Marquise  took  refuge  at  once  in  the  friendliness 
of  manner  which  women  use  as  a  defence  against  the 
misinterpretations  of  fatuity,  a  manner  which  admits  of 
no  afterthought,  while  it  paves  the  way  to  sentiment  (to 
make  use  of  a  figure  of  speech),  tempering  the  transition 
through  the  ordinary  forms  of  politeness.  In  this 
ambiguous  position,  where  the  four  roads  leading 
respectively  to  Indifference,  Respect,  Wonder,  and 
Passion  meet,  a  woman  may  stay  as  long  as  she  pleases, 
but  only  at  thirty  years  does  she  understand  all  the 
possibilities  of  the  situation.  Laughter,  tenderness,  and 
jest  are  all  permitted  to  her  at  the  crossing  of  the  ways  ; 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


she  has  acquired  the  tact  by  which  she  finds  all  the 
responsive  chords  in  a  man's  nature,  and  skill  in  judging 
the  sounds  which  she  draws  forth.  Her  silence  is  as 
dangerous  as  her  speech.  You  will  never  read  her  at 
that  age,  nor  discover  if  she  is  frank  or  false,  nor  how 
far  she  is  serious  in  her  admissions  or  merely  laughing  at 
you.  She  gives  you  the  right  to  engage  in  a  game  ot 
fence  with  her,  and  suddenly  by  a  glance,  a  gesture  of 
proved  potency,  she  closes  the  combat  and  turns  from 
you  with  your  secret  in  her  keeping,  free  to  offer  you 
up  to  a  jest,  free  to  interest  herself  in  you,  safe  alike  in 
her  weakness  and  your  strength. 

Although  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont  took  up  her 
position  upon  this  neutral  ground  during  the  first  inter- 
view, she  knew  how  to  preserve  a  high  womanly 
dignity.  The  sorrows  of  which  she  never  spoke  seemed 
to  hang  over  her  assumed  gaiety  like  a  light  cloud 
obscuring  the  sun.  When  Vandenesse  went  out,  after 
a  conversation  which  he  had  enjoyed  more  than  he  had 
thought  possible,  he  carried  with  him  the  conviction 
that  this  was  like  to  be  too  costly  a  conquest  for  his 
aspirations. 

*  It  would  mean  sentiment  from  here  to  yonder,'  he 
thought,  4  and  correspondence  enough  to  wear  out  a 
deputy  second-clerk  on  his  promotion.  And  yet  if  I 
really  cared  ' 

Luckless  phrase  that  has  been  the  ruin  of  many  an 
infatuated  mortal.  In  France  the  way  to  love  lies 
through  self-love.  Charles  went  back  to  Mme.  d' Aigle- 
mont,  and  imagined  that  she  showed  symptoms  of 
pleasure  in  his  conversation.  And  then,  instead  of 
giving  himself  up  like  a  boy  to  the  joy  of  falling  in  love, 
he  tried  to  play  a  double  rôle.  He  did  his  best  to  act 
passion  and  to  keep  cool  enough  to  analyse  the  progress 
of  this  flirtation,  to  be  lover  and  diplomatist  at  once  ;  but 
youth  and  hot  blood  and  analysis  could  only  end  in  one 
way,  over  head  and  ears  in  love  j  for,  natural  or  artificial, 

H 


114 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


the  Marquise  was  more  than  his  match.  Each  time  a* 
he  went  out  from  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  he  strenuously 
held  himself  to  his  distrust,  and  submitted  the  progressive 
situations  of  his  case  to  a  rigorous  scrutiny  fatal  to  his 
own  emotions. 

c  To-day  she  gave  me  to  understand  that  she  has  been 
very  unhappy  and  lonely,'  said  he  to  himself,  after  the 
third  visit,  'and  that  but  for  her  little  girl  she  would 
have  longed  for  death.  She  was  perfectly  resigned. 
Now  as  I  am  neither  her  brother  nor  her  spiritual 
director,  why  should  she  confide  her  troubles  to  me  ? 
She  loves  me.' 

Two  days  later  he  came  away  apostrophising  modern 
manners. 

4  Love  takes  on  the  hue  of  every  age.  In  1822  love 
is  a  doctrinaire.  Instead  of  proving  love  by  deeds,  as  in 
times  past,  we  have  taken  to  argument  and  rhetoric  and 
debate.  Women's  tactics  are  reduced  to  three  shifts. 
In  the  first  place,  they  declare  that  we  cannot  love  as 
they  love.  (Coquetry  !  the  Marquise  simply  threw  it  at 
me,  like  a  challenge,  this  evening  !  )  Next  they  grow 
pathetic,  to  appeal  to  our  natural  generosity  or  self-love  ; 
for  does  it  not  flatter  a  young  man's  vanity  to  console  a 
woman  for  a  great  calamity.  And  lastly,  they  have  a 
craze  for  virginity.  She  must  have  thought  that  I 
thought  her  very  innocent.  My  good  faith  is  like  to 
become  an  excellent  speculation.' 

But  a  day  came  when  every  suspicious  idea  was 
exhausted.  He  asked  himself  whether  the  Marquise 
was  not  sincere  ;  whether  so  much  suffering  could  be 
feigned,  and  why  she  should  act  the  part  of  resigna- 
tion ?  She  lived  in  complete  seclusion  ;  she  drank  in 
silence  of  a  cup  of  sorrow  scarcely  to  be  guessed  unless 
from  the  accent  of  some  chance  exclamation  in  a  voice 
always  well  under  control.  From  that  moment  Charles 
felt  a  keen  interest  in  Mme.  d'Aiglemont.  And  yet, 
though  his  visits  had  come  to  be  a  recognised  thing, 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


"5 


and  in  some  sort  a  necessity  to  them  both,  and  though 
the  hour  was  kept  free  by  tacit  agreement,  Vandenesse 
still  thought  that  this  woman  with  whom  he  was  in 
love  was  more  clever  than  sincere.  f  Decidedly,  she  is 
an  uncommonly  clever  woman,'  he  used  to  say  to  himself 
as  he  went  away. 

When  he  came  into  the  room,  there  was  the  Marquise 
in  her  favourite  attitude,  melancholy  expressed  in  her 
whole  form.  She  made  no  movement  when  he  entered, 
only  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  full  at  him,  but  the 
glance  that  she  gave  him  was  like  a  smile.  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont's  manner  meant  confidence  and  sincere 
friendship,  but  of  love  there  was  no  trace.  Charles  sat 
down  and  found  nothing  to  say.  A  sensation  for  which 
no  language  exists  troubled  him. 

c  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  '  she  asked  in  a 
softened  voice. 

6  Nothing.  .  „  Yes  ;  I  am  thinking  of  something  of 
which,  as  yet,  you  have  not  thought  at  all.1 

'What  is  it?' 

4  Why — the  Congress  is  over.' 

c  Well,'  she  said,  6  and  ought  you  to  have  been  at  the 
Congress  ?  ' 

A  direct  answer  would  have  been  the  most  eloquent 
and  delicate  declaration  of  love  ;  but  Charles  did  not 
make  it.  Before  the  candid  friendship  in  Mme.  d'Aigle- 
mont's face  all  the  calculations  of  vanity,  the  hopes  of 
love,  and  the  diplomatist's  doubts  died  away.  She  did 
not  suspect,  or  she  seemed  not  to  suspect,  his  love  for 
her  ;  and  Charles,  in  utter  confusion  turning  upon  him- 
self, was  forced  to  admit  that  he  had  said  and  done 
nothing  which  could  warrant  such  a  belief  on  her  part. 
For  M.  de  Vandenesse  that  evening,  the  Marquise  was, 
as  she  had  always  been,  simple  and  friendly,  sincere  in 
her  sorrow,  glad  to  have  a  friend,  proud  to  find  a  nature 
responsive  to  her  own  —  nothing  more.  It  had  not 
entered  her  mind  that  a  woman  could  yield  twice  -,  she 


n6  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

had  known  love — love  lay  bleeding  still  in  the  depths  of 
her  heart,  but  she  did  not  imagine  that  bliss  could  bring 
her  its  rapture  twice,  for  she  believed  not  merely  in  the 
intellect,  but  in  the  soul  ;  and  for  her  love  was  no  simple 
attraction  ;  it  drew  her  with  all  noble  attractions. 

In  a  moment  Charles  became  a  young  man  again, 
enthralled  by  the  splendour  of  a  nature  so  lofty,  He 
wished  for  a  fuller  initiation  into  the  secret  history  of  a 
life  blighted  rather  by  fate  than  by  her  own  fault. 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont  heard  him  ask  the  cause  of  the 
overwhelming  sorrow  which  had  blended  all  the  har- 
monies of  sadness  with  her  beauty  ;  she  gave  him  one 
glance,  but  that  searching  look  was  like  a  seal  set  upon 
some  solemn  compact. 

1  Ask  no  more  such  questions  of  me,'  she  said.  c  Four 
years  ago,  on  this  very  day,  the  man  who  loved  me,  for 
whom  I  would  have  given  up  everything,  even  my  own 
self-respect,  died,  and  died  to  save  my  name.  That  love 
was  still  young  and  pure  and  full  of  illusions  when  it 
came  to  an  end.  Before  I  gave  way  to  passion — and 
never  was  woman  so  urged  by  fate — I  had  been  drawn 
into  the  mistake  that  ruins  many  a  girl's  life,  a  marriage 
with  a  man  whose  agreeable  manners  concealed  his 
emptiness.  Marriage  plucked  my  hopes  away  one  by 
one.  And  now,  to-day,  I  have  forfeited  happiness 
through  marriage,  as  well  as  the  happiness  styled 
criminal,  and  I  have  known  no  happiness.  Nothing  is 
left  to  me.  If  I  could  not  die,  at  the  least  I  ought  to 
be  faithful  to  my  memories.' 

No  tears  came  with  the  words.  Her  eyes  fell,  and 
there  was  a  slight  twisting  of  the  fingers  interclasped, 
according  to  her  wont.  It  was  simply  said,  but  in  her 
voice  there  was  a  note  of  despair,  deep  as  her  love  seemed 
to  have  been,  which  left  Charles  without  a  hope.  The 
dreadful  story  of  a  life  told  in  three  sentences,  with  that 
twisting  of  the  fingers  for  all  comment,  the  might  of 
anguish  in  a  fragile  woman,  the  dark  depths  masked  by 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


117 


a  fair  face,  the  tears  of  four  years  of  mourning  fascinated 
Vandenesse  ;  he  sat  silent  and  diminished  in  the  presence 
of  her  woman's  greatness  and  nobleness,  seeing  not  the 
physical  beauty  so  exquisite,  so  perfectly  complete,  but 
the  soul  so  great  in  its  power  to  feel.  He  had  found,  at 
last,  the  ideal  of  his  fantastic  imaginings,  the  ideal  so 
vigorously  invoked  by  all  who  look  on  life  as  the  raw 
material  of  a  passion  for  which  many  a  one  seeks 
ardently,  and  dies  before  he  has  grasped  the  whole  of 
the  dreamed-of  treasure. 

With  those  words  of  hers  in  his  ears,  in  the  presence 
of  her  sublime  beauty,  his  own  thoughts  seemed  poor 
and  narrow.  Powerless  as  he  felt  himself  to  find  words 
of  his  own,  simple  enough  and  lofty  enough  to  scale  the 
heights  of  this  exaltation,  he  took  refuge  in  platitudes  as 
to  the  destiny  of  women. 

c  Madame,  we  must  either  forget  our  pain,  or  hollow 
out  a  tomb  for  ourselves.' 

But  reason  always  cuts  a  poor  figure  beside  sentiment  ; 
the  one  being  essentially  restricted,  like  everything  that 
is  positive,  while  the  other  is  infinite.  To  set  to  work 
to  reason  where  you  are  required  to  feel,  is  the  mark  of  a 
limited  nature.  Vandenesse  therefore  held  his  peace, 
sat  awhile  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  then  came  away. 
A  prey  to  novel  thoughts  which  exalted  woman  for  him, 
he  was  in  something  the  same  position  as  a  painter  who 
has  taken  the  vulgar  studio  model  for  a  type  of  woman- 
hood, and  suddenly  confronts  the  Mnemosyne  of  the  Musée 
— that  noblest  and  least  appreciated  of  antique  statues. 

Charles  de  Vandenesse  was  deeply  in  love.  He  loved 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont  with  the  loyalty  of  youth,  with  the 
fervour  that  communicates  such  ineffable  charm  to  a 
first  passion,  with  a  simplicity  of  heart  of  which  a  man 
only  recovers  some  fragments  when  he  loves  again  at  a 
later  day.  Delicious  first  passion  of  youth,  almost 
always  deliciously  savoured  by  the  woman  who  calls  it 
forth  ;  for  at  the  golden  prime  of  thirty,  from  the  poetic 


n8  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

summit  of  a  woman's  life,  she  can  look  out  over  the 
whole  course  of  love — backwards  into  the  past,  for- 
wards into  the  future — and,  knowing  all  the  price  to 
be  paid  for  love,  enjoys  her  bliss  with  the  dread  of 
losing  it  ever  present  with  her.  Her  soul  is  still  fair 
with  her  waning  youth,  and  passion  daily  gathers  strength 
from  the  dismaying  prospect  of  the  coming  days. 

4  This  is  love,'  Vandenesse  said  to  himself  this  time  as 
he  left  the  Marquise,  c  and  for  my  misfortune  I  love  a 
woman  wedded  to  her  memories.  It  is  hard  work  to 
struggle  against  a  dead  rival,  never  present  to  make 
blunders  and  fall  out  of  favour,  nothing  of  him  left 
but  his  better  qualities.  What  is  it  but  a  sort  of  high 
treason  against  the  Ideal  to  attempt  to  break  the  charm 
of  memory,  to  destroy  the  hopes  that  survive  a  lost 
lover,  precisely  because  he  only  awakened  longings,  and 
all  that  is  loveliest  and  most  enchanting  in  love  ?  ■ 

These  sober  reflections,  due  to  the  discouragement 
and  dread  of  failure  with  which  love  begins  in  earnest, 
were  the  last  expiring  effort  of  diplomatic  reasoning. 
Thenceforward  he  knew  no  afterthoughts,  he  was  the 
plaything  of  his  love,  and  lost  himself  in  the  nothings 
of  that  strange  inexplicable  happiness  which  is  full  fed 
by  a  chance  word,  by  silence,  or  a  vague  hope.  He  tried 
to  love  Platonically,  came  daily  to  breathe  the  air  that 
she  breathed,  became  almost  a  part  of  her  house,  and 
went  everywhere  with  her,  slave  as  he  was  of  a  tyrannous 
passion  compounded  of  egoism  and  devotion  of  the  com- 
pletest.  Love  has  its  own  instinct,  finding  the  way  to 
the  heart,  as  the  feeblest  insect  finds  the  way  to  its 
flower,  with  a  will  which  nothing  can  dismay  nor  turn 
aside.  If  feeling  is  sincere,  its  destiny  is  not  doubtful. 
Let  a  woman  begin  to  think  that  her  life  depends  on 
the  sincerity  or  fervour  or  earnestness  which  her  lover 
shall  put  into  his  longings,  and  is  there  not  sufficient 
in  the  thought  to  put  her  through  all  the  tortures  of 
dread  ?    It  is  impossible  for  a  woman,  be  she  wife  or 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  119 

mother,  to  be  secure  from  a  young  man's  love.  One 
thing  it  is  within  her  power  to  do — to  refuse  to  see  him 
as  soon  as  she  learns  a  secret  which  she  never  fails  to 
guess.  But  this  is  too  decided  a  step  to  take  at  an  age 
when  marriage  has  become  a  prosaic  and  tiresome  yoke, 
and  conjugal  affection  is  something  less  than  tepid  (if 
indeed  her  husband  has  not  already  begun  to  neglect 
her).  Is  a  woman  plain  ?  She  is  flattered  by  a  love 
which  gives  her  fairness.  Is  she  young  and  charm- 
ing ?  She  is  only  to  be  won  by  a  fascination  as  great  as 
her  own  power  to  charm,  that  is  to  say,  a  fascination  well 
nigh  irresistible.  Is  she  virtuous  ?  There  is  a  love  sub- 
lime in  its  earthliness  which  leads  her  to  find  something 
like  absolution  in  the  very  greatness  of  the  surrender 
and  glory  in  a  hard  struggle.  Everything  is  a  snare. 
No  lesson,  therefore,  is  too  severe  where  the  temptation 
is  so  strong.  The  seclusion  in  which  the  Greeks  and 
Orientals  kept  and  keep  their  women,  an  example  more 
and  more  followed  in  modern  England,  is  the  only  safe- 
guard of  domestic  morality  ;  but  under  this  system  there 
is  an  end  of  all  the  charm  of  social  intercourse  ;  and 
society,  and  good  breeding,  and  refinement  of  manners 
become  impossible.    The  nations  must  take  their  choice. 

So  a  few  months  went  by,  and  Mme.  d'Aiglemont 
discovered  that  her  life  was  closely  bound  with  this 
young  man's  life,  without  overmuch  confusion  in  her 
surprise,  and  felt  with  something  almost  like  pleasure  that 
she  shared  his  tastes  and  his  thoughts.  Had  she  adopted 
Vandenesse's  ideas  ?  Or  was  it  Vandenesse  who  had 
made  her  lightest  whims  his  own  ?  She  was  not  careful 
to  inquire.  She  had  been  swept  out  already  into  the 
current  of  passion,  and  yet  this  adorable  woman  told 
herself  with  the  confident  reiteration  of  misgiving — 

1  Ah  !  no.    I  will  be  faithful  to  him  who  died  for  me.' 

Pascal  said  that  *  the  doubt  of  God  implies  belief  in 
God.'  And  similarly  it  may  be  said  that  a  woman  only 
parleys  when  she  has  surrendered.    A  day  came  when 


I  20 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


the  Marquise  admitted  to  herself  that  she  was  loved,  and 
with  that  admission  came  a  time  of  wavering  among 
countless  conflicting  thoughts  and  feelings.  The  super- 
stitions of  experience  spoke  their  language.  Should  she 
be  happy  ?  Was  it  possible  that  she  should  find  happi- 
ness outside  the  limits  of  the  laws  which  society  rightly 
or  wrongly  has  set  up  for  humanity  to  live  by  ?  Hitherto 
her  cup  of  life  had  been  full  of  bitterness.  Was  there 
any  happy  issue  possible  for  the  ties  which  united  two 
human  beings  held  apart  by  social  conventions  ?  And 
might  not  happiness  be  bought  too  dear  ?  Still,  this 
so  ardently  desired  happiness,  for  which  it  is  so  natural 
to  seek,  might  perhaps  be  found  after  all.  Curiosity  is 
always  retained  on  the  lover's  side  in  the  suit.  The 
secret  tribunal  was  still  sitting  when  Vandenesse 
appeared,  and  his  presence  put  the  metaphysical  spectre, 
reason,  to  flight. 

If  such  are  the  successive  transformations  through 
which  a  sentiment,  transient  though  it  be,  passes  in  a 
young  man  and  a  woman  of  thirty,  there  comes  a 
moment  of  time  when  the  shades  of  difference  blend 
into  each  other,  when  all  reasonings  end  in  a  single  and 
final  reflection  which  is  lost  and  absorbed  in  the  desire 
which  it  confirms.  Then  the  longer  the  resistance,  the 
mightier  the  voice  of  love.  And  here  endeth  this  lesson, 
or  rather  this  study  made  from  the  êcorché^  to  borrow  a 
most  graphic  term  from  the  studio,  for  in  this  history  it 
is  not  so  much  intended  to  portray  love  as  to  lay  bare 
its  mechanism  and  its  dangers.  From  this  moment 
every  day  adds  colour  to  these  dry  bones,  clothes  them 
again  with  living  flesh  and  blood  and  the  charm  of 
youth,  and  puts  vitality  into  their  movements  ;  till  they 
glow  once  more  with  the  beauty,  the  persuasive  grace  of 
sentiment,  the  loveliness  of  life. 

Charles  found  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  absorbed  in  thought, 
and  to  his  '  What  is  it  ?  '  spoken  in  thrilling  tones  grown 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


persuasive  with  the  heart's  soft  magie,  she  was  careful 
not  to  reply.  The  delicious  question  bore  witness  to  the 
perfect  unity  of  their  spirits  ;  and  the  Marquise  felt,  with 
a  woman's  wonderful  intuition,  that  to  give  any  expres- 
sion to  the  sorrow  in  her  heart  would  be  to  make  an 
advance.  If,  even  now,  each  one  of  those  words  was 
fraught  with  significance  for  them  both,  in  what 
fathomless  depths  might  she  not  plunge  at  the  first  step  ? 
She  read  herself  with  a  clear  and  lucid  glance.  She  was 
silent,  and  Vandenesse  followed  her  example. 

'  I  am  not  feeling  well,'  she  said  at  last,  taking  alarm  at 
the  pause  fraught  with  such  great  moment  for  them 
both,  when  the  language  of  the  eyes  completely  filled 
the  blank  left  by  the  helplessness  of  speech. 

i  Madame,'  said  Charles,  and  his  voice  was  tender  but 
unsteady  with  strong  feeling,  i  soul  and  body  are  both 
dependent  on  each  other.  If  you  were  happy,  you  would 
be  young  and  fresh.  Why  do  you  refuse  to  ask  of  love 
all  that  love  has  taken  from  you  ?  You  think  that  your 
life  is  over  when  it  is  only  just  beginning.  Trust  your- 
self to  a  friend's  care.    It  is  so  sweet  to  be  loved.' 

i  I  am  old  already,'  she  said  ;  c  there  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  not  continue  to  suffer  as  in  the  past.  And  "one 
must  love,"  do  you  say  ?  Well,  I  must  not,  and  I 
cannot.  Your  friendship  has  put  some  sweetness  into 
my  life,  but  beside  you  I  care  for  no  one,  no  one  could 
efface  my  memories.  A  friend  I  accept  ;  I  should  fly 
from  a  lover.  Besides,  would  it  be  a  very  generous  thing 
to  do,  to  exchange  a  withered  heart  for  a  young  heart  ; 
to  smile  upon  illusions  which  now  I  cannot  share,  to 
cause  happiness  in  which  I  should  either  have  no  belief, 
or  tremble  to  lose  ?  I  should  perhaps  respond  to  his 
devotion  with  egoism,  should  weigh  and  deliberate  while 
he  felt  ;  my  memory  would  resent  the  poignancy  of  his 
happiness.  No,  if  you  love  once,  that  love  is  never 
replaced,  you  see.  Indeed,  who  would  have  my  heart 
at  this  price  ?  * 


122 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


There  was  a  tinge  of  heartless  coquetry  in  the  words, 
the  last  effort  of  discretion. 

*  If  he  loses  courage,  well  and  good,  I  shall  live  alone 
and  faithful.'  The  thought  came  from  the  very  depths 
of  the  woman,  for  her  it  was  the  too  slender  willow  twig 
caught  in  vain  by  a  swimmer  swept  out  by  the  current. 

Vandenesse's  involuntary  shudder  at  her  dictum  pled 
more  eloquently  for  him  than  all  his  past  assiduity. 
Nothing  moves  a  woman  so  much  as  the  discovery  of  a 
gracious  delicacy  in  us,  such  a  refinement  of  sentiment 
as  her  own,  for  a  woman  the  grace  and  delicacy  are  sure 
tokens  of  truth.  Charles's  start  revealed  the  sincerity  of 
his  love.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  learned  the  strength  of 
his  affection  from  the  intensity  of  his  pain. 

'  Perhaps  you  are  right,'  he  said  coldly.  c  New  love, 
new  vexation  of  spirit.' 

Then  he  changed  the  subject,  and  spoke  of  indifferent 
matters  ;  but  he  was  visibly  moved,  and  he  concentrated 
his  gaze  on  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  as  if  he  were  seeing  her 
for  the  last  time. 

1  Adieu,  madame,'  he  said,  with  emotion  in  his  voice. 

*  Au  revoir*  said  she,  with  that  subtle  coquetry,  the 
secret  of  a  very  few  among  women. 

He  made  no  answer  and  went. 

When  Charles  was  no  longer  there,  when  his  empty 
chair  spoke  for  him,  regrets  flocked  in  upon  her,  and  she 
found  fault  with  herself.  Passion  makes  an  immense 
advance  as  soon  as  a  woman  persuades  herself  that  she 
has  failed  somewhat  in  generosity  or  hurt  a  noble  nature. 
In  love  there  is  never  any  need  to  be  on  our  guard 
against  the  worst  in  us  ;  that  is  a  safeguard  ;  a  woman 
only  surrenders  at  the  summons  of  a  virtue.  4  The  floor 
of  hell  is  paved  with  good  intentions,' — it  is  no  preacher's 
paradox. 

Vandenesse  stopped  away  for  several  days.  Every 
evening  at  the  accustomed  hour  the  Marquise  sat  ex- 
pectant in  remorseful  impatience.    She  could  not  write 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


123 


— that  would  be  a  declaration,  and,  moreover,  her 
instinct  told  her  that  he  would  come  back.  On  the 
sixth  day  he  was  announced,  and  never  had  she  heard 
the  name  with  such  delight.    Her  joy  frightened  her. 

4  You  have  punished  me  well,'  she  said,  addressing 
him. 

Vandenesse  gazed  at  her  in  astonishment. 

c  Punished  ?  '  he  echoed.  c  And  for  what  ?  '  He 
understood  her  quite  well,  but  he  meant  to  be  avenged 
for  all  that  he  had  suffered  as  soon  as  she  suspected  it. 

4  Why  have  you  not  come  to  see  me  ?  '  she  demanded 
with  a  smile. 

1  Then  have  you  seen  no  visitors  ?  '  asked  he,  parry- 
ing the  question. 

*  Yes.  M.  de  Ronquerolles  and  M.  de  Marsay  and 
young  d'Escrignon  came  and  stayed  for  nearly  two 
hours,  the  first  two  yesterday,  the  last  this  morning. 
And  besides,  I  have  had  a  call,  I  believe,  from  Mme. 
Firmiani  and  from  your  sister,  Mme.  de  Listomère.' 

Here  was  a  new  infliction,  torture  which  none  can 
comprehend  unless  they  know  love  as  a  fierce  and  all- 
invading  tyrant  whose  mildest  symptom  is  a  monstrous 
jealousy,  a  perpetual  desire  to  snatch  away  the  beloved 
from  every  other  influence. 

'  What  !  •  thought  he  to  himself,  'she  has  seen  visitors, 
she  has  been  with  happy  creatures,  and  talking  to  them, 
while  I  was  unhappy  and  all  alone. 

He  buried  his  annoyance  forthwith,  and  consigned 
love  to  the  depths  of  his  heart,  like  a  coffin  to  the  sea. 
His  thoughts  were  of  the  kind  that  never  find  expression 
in  words  ;  they  pass  through  the  mind  swiftly  as  a  deadly 
acid,  that  poisons  as  it  evaporates  and  vanishes.  His 
brow,  however,  was  overclouded  ;  and  Mme.  d'Aiglemont, 
guided  by  her  woman's  instinct,  shared  his  sadness  with- 
out understanding  it.  She  had  hurt  him,  unwittingly,  as 
Vandenesse  knew.  He  talked  over  his  position  with  her, 
as  if  his  jealousy  were  one  of  those  hypothetical  cases 


I24 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


which  lovers  love  to  discuss.  Then  the  Marquise  under- 
stood it  all.  She  was  so  deeply  moved,  that  she  could 
not  keep  back  the  tears — and  so  these  lovers  entered  the 
heaven  of  love. 

Heaven  and  Hell  are  two  great  imaginative  concep- 
tions formulating  our  ideas  of  Joy  and  Sorrow — those 
two  poles  about  which  human  existence  revolves.  Is 
not  Heaven  a  figure  of  speech  covering  now  and  for 
evermore  an  infinite  of  human  feeling  impossible  to 
express  save  in  its  accidents — since  that  Joy  is  one  ?  And 
what  is  Hell  but  the  symbol  of  our  infinite  power  to 
suffer  tortures  so  diverse  that  of  our  pain  it  is  possible  to 
fashion  works  of  art,  for  no  two  human  sorrows  are 
alike  ? 

One  evening  the  two  lovers  sat  alone  and  side  by  side, 
silently  watching  one  of  the  fairest  transformations  of 
the  sky,  a  cloudless  heaven  taking  hues  of  pale  gold 
and  purple  from  the  last  rays  of  the  sunset.  With  the 
slow  fading  of  the  daylight,  sweet  thoughts  seem  to 
awaken,  and  soft  stirrings  of  passion  and  a  mysteri- 
ous sense  of  trouble  in  the  midst  of  calm.  Nature  sets 
before  us  vague  images  of  bliss,  bidding  us  enjoy  the 
happiness  within  our  reach,  or  lament  it  when  it  has  fled. 
In  those  moments  fraught  with  enchantment,  when  the 
tender  light  in  the  canopy  of  the  sky  blends  in  harmony 
with  the  spells  working  within,  it  is  difficult  to  resist 
the  heart's  desires  grown  so  magically  potent.  Cares 
are  blunted,  joy  becomes  ecstasy  ;  pain,  intolerable 
anguish.  The  pomp  of  sunset  gives  the  signal  for 
confessions  and  draws  them  forth.  Silence  grows  more 
dangerous  than  speech,  for  it  gives  to  eyes  all  the  power 
of  the  infinite  of  the  heavens  reflected  in  them.  And 
for  speech,  the  least  word  has  irresistible  might.  Is 
not  the  light  infused  into  the  voice  and  purple  into 
the  glances  ?  Is  not  heaven  within  us,  or  do  we  feel 
that  we  are  in  the  heavens  ?  ' 

Vandenesse  and  Julie — for  so  she  had  allowed  herself 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


ia5 


to  be  called  for  the  past  few  days  by  him  whom  she  loved 
to  speak  of  as  Charles — Vandenesse  and  Julie  were  talk- 
ing together,  but  they  had  drifted  very  far  from  their 
original  subject  ;  and  if  their  spoken  words  had  grown 
meaningless,  they  listened  in  delight  to  the  unspoken 
thoughts  that  lurked  in  the  sounds.  Her  hand  lay  in 
his.  She  had  abandoned  it  to  him  without  a  thought 
that  she  had  granted  a  proof  of  love. 

Together  they  leaned  forward  to  look  out  upon  a 
majestic  cloud  country,  full  of  snows  and  glaciers  and 
fantastic  mountain  peaks  with  grey  stains  of  shadow  on 
their  sides,  a  picture  composed  of  sharp  contrasts 
between  fiery  red  and  the  shadows  of  darkness,  filling 
the  skies  with  a  fleeting  vision  of  glory  which  cannot  be 
reproduced  —  magnificent  swaddling-bands  of  sunrise, 
bright  shrouds  of  the  dying  sun.  As  they  leant,  Julie's 
hair  brushed  lightly  against  Vandenesse's  cheek.  She 
felt  that  light  contact,  and  shuddered  violently,  and  he 
even  more,  for  imperceptibly  they  both  had  reached  one 
of  those  inexplicable  crises  when  quiet  has  wrought 
upon  the  senses  until  every  faculty  of  perception  is  so 
keen  that  the  slightest  shock  fills  the  heart  lost  in 
melancholy  with  sadness  that  overflows  in  tears  ;  or 
raises  joy  to  ecstasy  in  a  heart  that  is  lost  in  the 
vertigo  of  love.  Almost  involuntarily  Julie  pressed  her 
lover's  hand.  That  wooing  pressure  gave  courage  to 
his  timidity.  All  the  joy  of  the  present,  all  the  hopes  of 
the  future  were  blended  in  the  emotion  of  a  first  caress, 
the  bashful  trembling  kiss  that  Mme.  d'Aiglemont 
received  upon  her  cheek.  The  slighter  the  concession, 
the  more  dangerous  and  insinuating  it  was.  For  their 
double  misfortune  it  was  only  too  sincere  a  revelation. 
Two  noble  natures  had  met  and  blended,  drawn  each  to 
each  by  every  law  of  natural  attraction,  held  apart  by 
every  ordinance. 

General  d'Aiglemont  came  in  at  that  very  moment. 

4  The  Ministry  has  gone  out,'  he  said.    8  Your  untie 


126 


A  Woman  ot  Thirty 


will  be  in  the  new  cabinet.  So  you  stand  an  uncom- 
monly good  chance  of  an  embassy,  Vandenesse.' 

Charles  and  Julie  looked  at  each  other  and  flushed 
red.  That  blush  was  one  more  tie  to  unite  them  ;  there 
was  one  thought  and  one  remorse  in  either  mind  ; 
between  two  lovers  guilty  of  a  kiss  there  is  a  bond  quite 
as  strong  and  terrible  as  the  bond  between  two  robbers 
who  have  murdered  a  man.  Something  had  to  be  said 
by  way  of  reply. 

i  I  do  not  care  to  leave  Paris  now,'  Charles  said. 

6  We  know  why,'  said  the  General,  with  the  knowing 
air  of  a  man  who  discovers  a  secret.  c  You  do  not  like  to 
leave  your  uncle,  because  you  do  not  wish  to  lose  your 
chance  of  succeeding  to  the  title.' 

The  Marquise  took  refuge  in  her  room,  and  in  her 
mind  passed  a  pitiless  verdict  upon  her  husband. 

4  His  stupidity  is  really  beyond  anything  ! 9 


IV 

THE  FINGER  OF  GOD 

Between  the  Barrière  d'Italie  and  the  Barrière  de  la 
Santé,  along  the  boulevard  which  leads  to  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes,  you  have  a  view  of  Paris  fit  to  send  an  artist  or 
the  tourist,  the  most  blase  in  matters  of  landscape,  into 
ecstasies.  Reach  the  slightly  higher  ground  where  the 
line  of  boulevard,  shaded  by  tall,  thick-spreading  trees, 
curves  with  the  grace  of  some  green  and  silent  forest 
avenue,  and  you  see  spread  out  at  your  feet  a  deep 
valley  populous  with  factories  looking  almost  countrified 
among  green  trees  and  the  brown  streams  of  the  Bièvre 
or  the  Gobelins. 

On  the  opposite  slope,  beneath  some  thousands  of 
roofs  packed  close  together  like  heads  in  a  crowd,  lurks 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


127 


the  squalor  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Marceau.  The 
imposing  cupola  of  the  Pantheon,  and  the  grim  melan- 
choly dome  of  the  Val-du-Grace,  tower  proudly  up 
above  a  whole  town  in  itself,  built  amphitheatre-wise; 
every  tier  being  grotesquely  represented  by  a  crooked  line 
of  street,  so  that  the  two  public  monuments  look  like  a 
huge  pair  of  giants  dwarfing  into  insignificance  the 
poor  little  houses  and  the  tallest  poplars  in  the  valley. 
To  your  left  behold  the  observatory,  the  daylight,  pour- 
ing athwart  its  windows  and  galleries,  producing  such 
fantastical  strange  effects  that  the  building  looks  like  a 
black  spectral  skeleton.  Further  yet  in  the  distance 
rises  the  elegant  lantern  tower  of  the  Invalides,  soaring 
up  between  the  bluish  pile  of  the  Luxembourg  and 
the  grey  towers  of  Saint-Sulpice.  From  this  standpoint 
the  lines  of  the  architecture  are  blended  with  green 
leaves  and  grey  shadows,  and  change  every  moment 
with  every  aspect  of  the  heavens,  every  alteration  of 
light  or  colour  in  the  sky.  Afar,  the  skyey  spaces  them- 
selves seem  to  be  full  of  buildings  ;  near,  wind  the  serpen- 
tine curves  of  waving  trees  and  green  footpaths. 

Away  to  your  right,  through  a  great  gap  in  this 
singular  landscape,  you  see  the  canal  Saint-Martin,  a 
long  pale  stripe  with  its  edging  of  reddish  stone  quays 
and  fringes  of  lime  avenue.  The  long  rows  of  buildings 
beside  it,  in  genuine  Roman  style,  are  the  public 
granaries. 

Beyond,  again,  on  the  very  last  plane  of  all,  see  the 
smoke-dimmed  slopes  of  Belleville  covered  with  houses 
and  windmills,  which  blend  their  freaks  of  outline  with  the 
chance  effects  of  cloud.  And  still,  between  that  horizon, 
vague  as  some  childish  recollection,  and  the  serried  range 
of  roofs  in  the  valley,  a  whole  city  lies  out  of  sight  :  a 
huge  city,  engulfed,  as  it  were,  in  a  vast  hollow  between 
the  pinnacles  of  the  Hôpital  de  la  Pitié  and  the  ridge 
line  of  the  Cimetière  de  1  Est,  between  suffering  on  the 
one  haxid  and  death  on  the  other  i  a  city  sending  up  a 


128 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


smothered  roar  like  ocean  grumbling  at  the  foot  of  a 
cliff,  as  if  to  let  you  know  that  c  I  am  here  !  ' 

When  the  sunlight  pours  like  a  flood  over  this  strip  of 
Paris,  purifying  and  etherealising  the  outlines,  kindling 
answering  lights  here  and  there  in  the  window  panes, 
brightening  the  red  tiles,  flaming  about  the  golden 
crosses,  whitening  walls  and  transforming  the  atmosphere 
into  a  gauzy  veil,  calling  up  rich  contrasts  of  light  and 
fantastic  shadow  ;  when  the  sky  is  blue  and  earth  quivers 
in  the  heat,  and  the  bells  are  pealing,  then  you  shall  see 
one  of  the  eloquent  fairy  scenes  which  stamp  themselves 
for  ever  on  the  imagination,  a  scene  that  shall  find  as 
fanatical  worshippers  as  the  wondrous  views  of  Naples 
and  Byzantium  or  the  isles  of  Florida.  Nothing  is 
wanting  to  complete  the  harmony,  the  murmur  of 
the  world  of  men  and  the  idyllic  quiet  of  solitude,  the 
voices  of  a  million  human  creatures  and  the  voice  of 
God.  There  lies  a  whole  capital  beneath  the  peaceful 
cypresses  of  Père-Lachaise. 

The  landscape  lay  in  all  its  beauty,  sparkling  in  the 
spring  sunlight,  as  I  stood  looking  out  over  it  one 
morning,  my  back  against  a  huge  elm-tree  that  flung  its 
yellow  flowers  to  the  wind.  And  at  the  sight  of  the 
rich  and  glorious  view  before  me,  I  thought  bitterly  of 
the  scorn  with  which  even  in  our  literature  we  affect  to 
hold  this  land  of  ours,  and  poured  maledictions  on  the 
pitiable  plutocrats  who  fall  out  of  love  with  fair  France, 
and  spend  their  gold  to  acquire  the  right  of  sneering  at 
their  own  country,  by  going  through  Italy  at  a  gallop 
and  inspecting  that  desecrated  land  through  an  opera- 
glass.  I  cast  loving  eyes  on  modern  Paris  ;  I  was 
beginning  to  dream  dreams,  when  the  sound  of  a  kiss 
disturbed  the  solitude  and  put  philosophy  to  flight. 
Down  the  side  walk,  along  the  steep  bank,  above  the 
rippling  water,  I  saw  beyond  the  Pont  des  Gobelins  the 
figure  of  a  woman,  dressed  with  the  daintiest  simplicity  ; 
she  was  still  young,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  and  the  blithe 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


gladness  of  the  landscape  was  reflected  in  her  sweet  face. 
Her  companion,  a  handsome  young  man,  had  just  set 
down  a  little  boy.  A  prettier  child  has  never  been  seen, 
and  to  this  day  I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  the  little 
one  or  his  mother  who  received  the  kiss.  In  their  young 
faces,  in  their  eyes,  their  smile,  their  every  movement, 
you  could  read  the  same  deep  and  tender  thought. 
Their  arms  were  interlaced  with  such  glad  swiftness; 
they  drew  close  together  with  such  marvellous  unanimity 
of  impulse  that,  conscious  of  nothing  but  themselves, 
they  did  not  so  much  as  see  me.  A  second  child, 
however — a  little  girl,  who  had  turned  her  back  upon 
them  in  sullen  discontent — threw  me  a  glance,  and  the 
expression  of  her  eyes  startled  me.  She  was  as  pretty 
and  as  engaging  as  the  little  brother  whom  she  left  to 
run  about  by  himself,  sometimes  before,  sometimes  after 
their  mother  and  her  companion  ;  but  her  charm  was 
less  childish,  and  now,  as  she  stood  mute  and  motionless, 
her  attitude  and  demeanour  suggested  a  torpid  snake. 
There  was  something  indescribably  mechanical  in  the 
way  in  which  the  pretty  woman  and  her  companion 
paced  up  and  down.  In  absence  of  mind,  probably,  they 
were  content  to  walk  to  and  fro  between  the  little  bridge 
and  a  carriage  that  stood  waiting  near  by  at  a  corner  in 
the  Boulevard,  turning,  stopping  short  now  and  again, 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  or  breaking  into  laughter 
as  their  casual  talk  grew  lively  or  languid,  grave  or  gay. 

I  watched  this  delicious  picture  a  while  from  my 
hiding-place  by  the  great  elm- tree,  and  should  have 
turned  away  no  doubt  and  respected  their  privacy,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  a  chance  discovery.  In  the  face  of  the 
brooding,  silent,  elder  child  I  saw  traces  of  thought  over- 
deep  for  her  age.  When  her  mother  and  the  young 
man  at  her  side  turned  and  came  near,  her  head  was 
frequently  lowered  ;  the  furtive  sidelong  glances  of  in- 
telligence that  she  gave  the  pair  and  the  child  her  brother 
were  nothing  less  than  extraordinary.    Sometimes  the 

i 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


pretty  woman  or  her  friend  would  stroke  the  little  boy's 
fair  curls,  or  lay  a  caressing  finger  against  the  baby  throat 
or  the  white  collar  as  he  played  at  keeping  step  with 
them  ;  and  no  words  can  describe  the  shrewd  subtlety,  the 
ingenuous  malice,  the  fierce  intensity  which  lighted 
up  that  pallid  little  face  with  the  faint  circles  already 
round  the  eyes.  Truly  there  was  a  man's  power  of 
passion  in  that  strange-looking,  delicate  little  girl.  Here 
were  traces  of  suffering  or  of  thought  in  her  ;  and  which 
is  the  more  certain  token  of  death  when  life  is  in  blossom — 
physical  suffering,  or  the  malady  of  too  early  thought 
preying  upon  a  soul  as  yet  in  bud  ?  Perhaps  a  mother 
knows.  For  my  own  part,  I  know  of  nothing  more 
dreadful  to  see  than  an  old  man's  thoughts  on  a  child's 
forehead  ;  even  blasphemy  from  girlish  lips  is  less  mon- 
strous. 

The  almost  stupid  stolidity  of  this  child  who  had 
begun  to  think  already,  her  rare  gestures,  everything 
about  her,  interested  me.  I  scrutinised  her  curiously. 
Then  the  common  whim  of  the  observer  drew  me  to 
compare  her  with  her  brother,  and  to  note  their  likeness 
and  unlikeness. 

Her  brown  hair  and  dark  eyes  and  look  of  precocious 
power  made  a  rich  contrast  with  the  little  one's  fair 
curled  head  and  sea-green  eyes  and  winning  helplessness. 
She,  perhaps,  was  seven  or  eight  years  of  age  ;  the  boy 
was  full  four  years  younger.  Both  children  were  dressed 
alike  ;  but  here  again,  looking  closely,  I  noticed  a  differ- 
ence. It  was  very  slight,  a  little  thing  enough  ;  but  in 
the  light  of  after  events  I  saw  that  it  meant  a  whole 
romance  in  the  past,  a  whole  tragedy  to  come.  The 
little  brown-haired  maid  wore  a  linen  collar  with  a  plain 
hem,  her  brother's  was  edged  with  dainty  embroidery, 
that  was  all  ;  but  therein  lay  the  confession  of  a  heart's 
secret,  a  tacit  preference  which  a  child  can  read  in  the 
mother's  inmost  soul  as  clearly  as  if  the  spirit  of  God 
revealed  it.     The  fair-haired  child,  careless  and  glad, 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


looked  almost  like  a  girl,  his  skin  was  so  fair  and  fresh, 
his  movements  so  graceful,  his  look  so  sweet  ;  while  his 
older  sister,  in  spite  of  her  energy,  in  spite  of  the  beauty 
of  her  features  and  her  dazzling  complexion,  looked  like 
a  sickly  little  boy.  In  her  bright  eyes  there  was  none 
of  the  humid  softness  which  lends  such  charm  to 
children's  faces  ;  they  seemed,  like  courtiers'  eyes,  to  be 
dried  by  some  inner  fire  ;  and  in  her  pallor  there  was  a 
certain  swarthy  olive  tint,  the  sign  of  vigorous  character. 
Twice  her  little  brother  came  to  her,  holding  out  a  tiny 
hunting-horn  with  a  touching  charm,  a  winning  look, 
and  wistful  expression,  which  would  have  sent  Charlet 
into  ecstasies,  but  she  only  scowled  in  answer  to  his 
4  Here,  Hélène,  will  you  take  it  ?  '  so  persuasively  spoken. 
The  little  girl,  so  sombre  and  vehement  beneath  her 
apparent  indifférence,  shuddered,  and  even  flushed  red 
when  her  brother  came  near  her  ;  but  the  little  one 
seemed  not  to  notice  his  sister's  dark  mood,  and  his 
unconsciousness,  blended  with  earnestness,  marked  a 
final  différence  in  character  between  the  child  and  the 
little  girl,  whose  brow  was  overclouded  already  by  the 
gloom  of  a  man's  knowledge  and  cares. 

c  Mamma,  Hélène  will  not  play/  cried  the  little  one, 
seizing  an  opportunity  to  complain  while  the  two  stood 
silent  on  the  Pont  des  Gobelins. 

c  Let  her  alone,  Charles  ;  you  know  very  well  that  she 
is  always  cross.' 

Tears  sprang  to  Hélène's  eyes  at  the  words  so  thought- 
lessly uttered  by  her  mother  as  she  turned  abruptly  to 
the  young  man  by  her  side.  The  child  devoured  the 
speech  in  silence,  but  she  gave  her  brother  one  of  those 
sagacious  looks  that  seemed  inexplicable  to  me,  glancing 
with  a  sinister  expression  from  the  bank  where  he  stood 
to  the  Bièvre,  then  at  the  bridge  and  the  view,  and  then 
at  me. 

I  was  afraid  lest  my  presence  should  disturb  the  happy 
couple  ;  I  slipped  away  and  took  refuge  behind  a  thicket 


132 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


of  elder  trees,  which  completely  screened  me  from  all 
eyes.  Sitting  quietly  on  the  summit  of  the  bank,  I 
watched  the  ever-changing  landscape  and  the  fierce- 
looking  little  girl,  for  with  my  head  almost  on  a  level 
with  the  boulevard  I  could  still  see  her  through  the 
leaves.  Hélène  seemed  uneasy  over  my  disappearance, 
her  dark  eyes  looked  for  me  down  the  alley  and  behind 
the  trees  with  indefinable  curiosity.  What  was  I  to  her  ? 
Then  Charles's  baby  laughter  rang  out  like  a  bird's  song 
in  the  silence.  The  tall,  young  man,  with  the  same  fair 
hair,  was  dancing  him  in  his  arms,  showering  kisses  upon 
him,  and  the  meaningless  baby  words  of  that  c  little 
language'  which  rises  to  our  lips  when  we  play  with 
children.  The  mother  looked  on  smiling,  now  and 
then,  doubtless,  putting  in  some  low  word  that  came  up 
from  the  heart,  for  her  companion  would  stop  short  in 
his  full  happiness,  and  the  blue  eyes  that  turned  towards 
her  were  full  of  glowing  light  and  love  and  worship. 
Their  voices,  blending  with  the  child's  voice,  reached 
me  with  a  vague  sense  of  a  caress.  The  three  figures, 
charming  in  themselves,  composed  a  lovely  scene  in  a 
glorious  landscape,  filling  it  with  a  pervasive  unimagin- 
able grace.  A  delicately  fair  woman,  radiant  with 
smiles,  a  child  of  love,  a  young  man  with  the  irresistible 
charm  of  youth,  a  cloudless  sky  ;  nothing  was  wanting 
in  nature  to  complete  a  perfect  harmony  for  the  delight 
of  the  soul.  I  found  myself  smiling  as  if  their  happiness 
had  been  my  own. 

The  clocks  struck  nine.  The  young  man  gave  a 
tender  embrace  to  his  companion,  and  went  towards  the 
tilbury  which  an  old  servant  drove  slowly  to  meet  him. 
The  lady  had  grown  grave  and  almost  sad.  The  child's 
prattle  sounded  unchecked  through  the  last  farewell 
kisses.  Then  the  tilbury  rolled  away,  and  the  lady 
stood  motionless,  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  wheels, 
watching  the  little  cloud  of  dust  raised  by  its  passage 
along  the  road.    Charles  ran  down  the  green  pathway 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


*33 


back  to  the  bridge  to  join  his  sister.  I  heard  his  silver 
voice  calling  to  her. 

4  Why  did  you  not  come  to  say  good-bye  to  my  good 
friend  ?  '  cried  he. 

Hélène  looked  up.  Never  surely  did  such  hatred 
gleam  from  a  child's  eyes  as  from  hers  at  that  moment 
when  she  turned  them  on  the  brother  who  stood  beside 
her  on  the  bank  side.  She  gave  him  an  angry  push. 
Charles  lost  his  footing  on  the  steep  slope,  stumbled  over 
the  roots  of  a  tree,  and  fell  headlong  forwards,  dashing 
his  forehead  on  the  sharp-edged  stones  of  the  embank- 
ment, and,  covered  with  blood,  disappeared  over  the  edge 
into  the  muddy  river.  The  turbid  water  closed  over  a 
fair,  bright  head  with  a  shower  of  splashes  -,  one  sharp 
shriek  after  another  rang  in  my  ears  ;  then  the  sounds 
were  stifled  by  the  thick  stream,  and  the  poor  child  sank 
with  a  dull  sound  as  if  a  stone  had  been  thrown  into  the 
water.  The  accident  had  happened  with  more  than  light- 
ning swiftness.  I  sprang  down  the  footpath,  and  Hélène, 
stupefied  with  horror,  shrieked  again  and  again — 

6  Mamma  !  mamma  !  ? 

The  mother  was  there  at  my  side.  She  had  flown  to 
the  spot  like  a  bird.  But  neither  a  mother's  eyes  nor 
mine  could  find  the  exact  place  where  the  little  one  had 
gone  under.  There  was  a  wide  space  of  black  hurrying 
water,  and  below  in  the  bed  of  the  Bièvre  ten  feet  of 
mud.  There  was  not  the  smallest  possibility  of  saving 
the  child.  No  one  is  stirring  at  that  hour  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  and  there  are  neither  barges  nor  anglers  on  the 
Bièvre.  There  was  not  a  creature  in  sight,  not  a  pole 
to  plumb  the  filthy  stream.  What  need  was  there  for 
me  to  explain  how  the  ugly-looking  accident  had  hap- 
pened— -accident  or  misfortune,  whichever  it  might  be  ? 
Had  Hélène  avenged  her  father  ?  Her  jealousy  surely 
was  the  sword  of  God.  And  yet  when  I  looked  at  the 
mother  I  shivered.  What  fearful  ordeal  awaited  her 
when  she  should  return  to  her  husband,  the  judge  before 


134 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


whom  she  must  stand  all  her  days  ?  And  here  with  her 
was  an  inseparable,  incorruptible  witness.  A  child's  fore- 
head is  transparent,  a  child's  face  hides  no  thoughts,  and 
a  lie,  like  a  red  flame  set  within,  glows  out  in  red  that 
colours  even  the  eyes.  But  the  unhappy  woman  had 
not  thought  as  yet  of  the  punishment  awaiting  her  at 
home  ;  she  was  staring  into  the  Bièvre. 

Such  an  event  must  inevitably  send  ghastly  echoes 
through  a  woman's  life,  and  here  is  one  of  the  most 
terrible  of  the  reverberations  that  troubled  Julie's  love 
from  time  to  time. 

Several  years  had  gone  by.  The  Marquis  de  Van- 
denesse  wore  mourning  for  his  father,  and  succeeded  to 
his  estates.  One  evening,  therefore,  after  dinner  it 
happened  that  a  notary  was  present  in  his  house.  This 
was  no  pettifogging  lawyer  after  Sterne's  pattern,  but  a 
very  solid,  substantial  notary  of  Paris,  one  of  your  estim- 
able men  who  do  a  stupid  thing  pompously,  set  down  a 
foot  heavily  upon  your  private  corn,  and  then  ask  what 
in  the  world  there  is  to  cry  out  about  ?  If,  by  accident, 
they  come  to  know  the  full  extent  of  the  enormity, 
6  Upon  my  word,'  cry  they,  c 1  hadn't  a  notion  !  '  This 
was  a  well-intentioned  ass,  in  short,  who  could  see 
nothing  in  life  but  deeds  and  documents. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  had  been  dining  with  M.  de 
Vandenesse  ;  her  husband  had  excused  himself  before 
dinner  was  over,  for  he  was  taking  his  two  children  to 
the  play.  They  were  to  go  to  some  Boulevard  theatre 
or  other,  to  the  Ambigu-Comique  or  the  Gaieté,  sensa- 
tional melodrama  being  judged  harmless  here  in  Paris, 
and  suitable  pabulum  for  childhood,  because  innocence  is 
always  triumphant  in  the  fifth  act.  The  boy  and  girl 
had  teased  their  father  to  be  there  before  the  curtain 
rose,  so  he  had  left  the  table  before  dessert  was  served. 

But  the  notary,  the  imperturbable  notary,  utterly 
incapable  of  asking  himself  why  Mme.  d'Aiglemont 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


«35 


should  have  allowed  her  husband  and  children  to  go 
without  her  to  the  play,  sat  on  as  if  he  were  screwed  to 
his  chair.  Dinner  was  over,  dessert  had  been  prolonged 
by  discussion,  and  coffee  delayed.  All  these  things  con- 
sumed time,  doubtless  precious,  and  drew  impatient 
movements  from  that  charming  woman  ;  she  looked  not 
unlike  a  thorough-bred  pawing  the  ground  before  a 
race  ;  but  the  man  of  law,  to  whom  horses  and  women 
were  equally  unknown  quantities,  simply  thought  the 
Marquise  a  very  lively  and  sparkling  personage.  So 
enchanted  was  he  to  be  in  the  company  of  a  woman  of 
fashion  and  a  political  celebrity,  that  he  was  exerting 
himself  to  shine  in  conversation,  and  taking  the  lady's 
forced  smile  for  approbation,  talked  on  with  unflagging 
spirit,  till  the  Marquise  was  almost  out  of  patience. 

The  master  of  the  house,  in  concert  with  the  lady, 
had  more  than  once  maintained  an  eloquent  silence  when 
the  lawyer  expected  a  civil  reply  ;  but  these  significant 
pauses  were  employed  by  the  talkative  nuisance  in  looking 
for  anecdotes  in  the  fire.  M.  de  Vandenesse  had  recourse 
to  his  watch  ;  the  charming  Marquise  tried  the  experi- 
ment of  fastening  her  bonnet  strings,  and  made  as  if  she 
would  go.  But  she  did  not  go,  and  the  notary,  blind 
and  deaf,  and  delighted  with  himself,  was  quite  convinced 
that  his  interesting  conversational  powers  were  sufficient 
to  keep  the  lady  on  the  spot. 

i  I  shall  certainly  have  that  woman  for  a  client,'  said 
he  to  himself. 

Meanwhile  the  Marquise  stood,  putting  on  her  gloves, 
twisting  her  fingers,  looking  from  the  equally  impatient 
Marquis  de  Vandenesse  to  the  lawyer,  still  pounding 
away.  At  every  pause  in  the  worthy  man's  fire  of 
witticisms  the  charming  pair  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  and 
their  looks  said  plainly,  '  At  last  !    He  is  really  going  ! 1 

Nothing  of  the  kind.  It  was  a  nightmare  which 
could  only  end  in  exasperating  the  two  impassioned 
creatures,  on  whom  the  lawyer  had  something  of  the 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


fascinating  effect  of  a  snake  on  a  pair  of  birds  ;  before 
long  they  would  be  driven  to  cut  him  short. 

The  clever  notary  was  giving  them  the  history  of  the 
discreditable  ways  in  which  one  du  Tillet  (a  stockbroker 
then  much  in  favour)  had  laid  the  foundations  of  his 
fortune  ;  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  whole  disgraceful 
business  were  accurately  put  before  them  ;  and  the 
narrator  was  in  the  very  middle  of  his  tale  when  M.  de 
Vandenesse  heard  the  clock  strike  nine.  Then  it 
became  clear  to  him  that  his  legal  adviser  was  very 
emphatically  an  idiot  who  must  be  sent  forthwith 
about  his  business.  He  stopped  him  resolutely  with  a 
gesture. 

'  The  tongs,  my  lord  Marquis  ?  '  queried  the  notary, 
handing  the  object  in  question  to  his  client. 

'  No,  monsieur,  I  am  compelled  to  send  you  away. 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont  wishes  to  join  her  children,  and  I 
shall  have  the  honour  of  escorting  her.' 

4  Nine  o'clock  already  !  Time  goes  like  a  shadow  in 
pleasant  company,'  said  the  man  of  law,  who  had  talked 
on  end  for  the  past  hour. 

He  looked  for  his  hat,  planted  himself  before  the  fire, 
with  a  suppressed  hiccough  ;  and,  without  heeding  the 
Marquise's  withering  glances,  spoke  once  more  to  his 
impatient  client — 

cTo  sum  up,  my  lord  Marquis.  Business  before  all 
things.  To-morrow,  then,  we  must  subpoena  your 
brother;  we  will  proceed  to  make  out  the  inventory, 
and  faith,  after  that  ' 

So  ill  had  the  lawyer  understood  his  instructions,  that 
his  impression  was  the  exact  opposite  to  the  one  intended. 
It  was  a  delicate  matter,  and  Vandenesse,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, began  to  put  the  thick-headed  notary  right.  The 
discussion  which  followed  took  up  a  certain  amount  of 
time. 

c  Listen,'  the  diplomatist  said  at  last  at  a  sign  from  the 
lady,  c  you  are  puzzling  my  brains;  come  back  to-morrow 
at  nine  o'clock,  and  bring  my  solicitor  with  you.' 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


«37 


*  But,  as  I  have  the  honour  of  observing,  my  lord 
Marquis,  we  are  not  certain  of  finding  M.  Desroches 
to-morrow,  and  if  the  writ  is  not  issued  by  noon  to- 
morrow, the  days  of  grace  will  expire,  and  then  \ 

As  he  spoke,  a  carriage  entered  the  courtyard.  The 
poor  woman  turned  sharply  away  at  the  sound  to  hide 
the  tears  in  her  eyes.  The  Marquis  rang  to  give  the 
servant  orders  to  say  that  he  was  not  at  home  ;  but 
before  the  footman  could  answer  the  bell,  the  lady's 
husband  reappeared.  He  had  returned  unexpectedly 
from  the  Gaieté,  and  held  both  children  by  the  hand. 
The  little  girl's  eyes  were  red  -y  the  boy  was  fretful  and 
very  cross. 

4  What  can  have  happened  ? 9  asked  the  Marquise. 

4  I  will  tell  you  by  and  by,'  said  the  General,  and 
catching  a  glimpse  through  an  open  door  of  newspapers 
on  the  table  in  the  adjoining  sitting-room,  he  went  off. 
The  Marquise,  at  the  end  of  her  patience,  flung  herself 
down  on  the  sofa  in  desperation.  The  notary,  thinking 
it  incumbent  upon  him  to  be  amiable  with  the  children, 
spoke  to  the  little  boy  in  an  insinuating  tone — 

4  Well,  my  little  man,  and  what  is  there  on  at  the 
theatre  ?  ' 

4  The  Valley  of  the  Torrent^  said  Gustave  sulkily. 

4  Upon  my  word  and  honour,'  declared  the  notary, 
4  authors  nowadays  are  half  crazy.  The  Valley  of  the 
Torrent  !  Why  not  the  Torrent  of  the  Valley  ?  It  is 
conceivable  that  a  valley  might  be  without  a  torrent  in 
it  ->  now  if  they  had  said  the  Torrent  of  the  Valley,  that 
would  have  been  something  clear,  something  precise, 
something  definite  and  comprehensible.  But  never  mind 
that.  Now,  how  is  a  drama  to  take  place  in  a  torrent 
and  in  a  valley  ?  You  will  tell  me  that  in  these  days  the 
principal  attraction  lies  in  the  scenic  effect,  and  the  title  is 
a  capital  advertisement. — And  did  you  enjoy  it,  my  little 
friend  ?  '  he  continued,  sitting  down  before  the  child. 

When  the  notary  pursued  his  inquiries  as  to  the 
possibilities  of  a  drama  in  the  bed  of  a  torrent,  the  little 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


girl  turned  slowly  away  and  began  to  cry.  Her  mother 
did  not  notice  this  in  her  intense  annoyance. 

4  Oh  !  yes,  monsieur,  I  enjoyed  it  very  much,*  said  the 
child.  4  There  was  a  dear  little  boy  in  the  play,  and  he 
was  all  alone  in  the  world,  because  his  papa  could  not 
have  been  his  real  papa.  And  when  he  came  to  the 
top  of  the  bridge  over  the  torrent,  a  big,  naughty  man 
with  a  beard,  dressed  all  in  black,  came  and  threw  him 
into  the  water.  And  then  Hélène  began  to  sob  and  cry, 
and  everybody  scolded  us,  and  father  brought  us  away 
quick,  quick  ' 

M.  de  Vandenesse  and  the  Marquise  looked  on  in  dull 
amazement,  as  if  all  power  to  think  or  move  had  been 
suddenly  paralysed. 

4  Do  be  quiet,  Gustave  !  f  cried  the  General.  4 1  told 
you  that  you  were  not  to  talk  about  anything  that 
happened  at  the  play,  and  you  have  forgotten  what  I 
said  already.' 

4  Oh,  my  lord  Marquis,  your  lordship  must  excuse 
him,'  cried  the  notary.  4 1  ought  not  to  have  asked 
questions,  but  I  had  no  idea  ' 

6  He  ought  not  to  have  answered  them,'  said  the 
General,  looking  sternly  at  the  child. 

It  seemed  that  the  Marquise  and  the  master  of  the 
house  both  perfectly  understood  why  the  children  had 
come  back  so  suddenly.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  looked  at 
her  daughter,  and  rose  as  if  to  go  to  her,  but  a  terrible 
convulsion  passed  over  her  face,  and  all  that  could  be  read 
in  it  was  relentless  severity. 

4  That  will  do,  Hélène,'  she  said.  4  Go  into  the  other 
room,  and  leave  off  crying.' 

4  What  can  she  have  done,  poor  child  ?  '  asked  the 
notary,  thinking  to  appease  the  mother's  anger  and  to 
stop  Hélène's  tears  at  one  stroke.  4  So  pretty  as  she  is, 
she  must  be  as  good  as  can  be  ;  never  anything  but  a  joy 
to  her  mother,  I  will  be  bound.  Isn't  that  so,  my  little 
girl  ?  ' 

Hélène  cowered,  looked  at  her  mother,  dried  her  eyes, 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


139 


struggled  for  composure,  and  took  refuge  in  the  next 
room. 

i  And  you,  madame,  are  too  good  a  mother  not  to  love 
all  your  children  alike.  You  are  too  good  a  woman, 
besides,  to  have  any  of  those  lamentable  preferences 
which  have  such  fatal  effects,  as  we  lawyers  have  only 
too  much  reason  to  know.  Society  goes  through  our 
hands  ;  we  see  its  passions  in  that  most  revolting  form, 
greed.  Here  it  is  the  mother  of  a  family  trying  to  dis- 
inherit her  husband's  children  to  enrich  the  others  whom 
she  loves  better  ;  or  it  is  the  husband  who  tries  to  leave 
all  his  property  to  the  child  who  has  done  his  best  to 
earn  his  mother's  hatred.  And  then  begin  quarrels, 
and  fears,  and  deeds,  and  defeasances,  and  sham  sales,  and 
trusts,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  \  a  pretty  mess,  in  fact,  it  is 
pitiable,  upon  my  honour,  pitiable  !  There  are  fathers 
that  will  spend  their  whole  lives  in  cheating  their  children 
and  robbing  their  wives.  Yes,  robbing  is  the  only  word 
for  it.  We  were  talking  of  tragedy  ;  oh  !  I  can  assure  you 
of  this,  that  if  we  were  at  liberty  to  tell  the  real  reasons 
of  some  donations  that  I  know  of,  our  modern  dramatists 
would  have  the  material  for  some  sensational  bourgeois 
dramas.  How  the  wife  manages  to  get  her  way,  as  she 
invariably  does,  I  cannot  think  ;  for  in  spite  of  appear- 
ances, and  in  spite  of  their  weakness,  it  is  always  the 
women  who  carry  the  day.  Ah  !  by  the  way,  they 
don't  take  me  in.  I  always  know  the  reason  at  the  bottom 
of  those  predilections  which  the  world  politely  styles 
I  unaccountable."  But  in  justice  to  the  husbands,  I 
must  say  that  they  never  discover  anything.  You  will 
tell  me  that  this  is  a  merciful  dispens  ' 

Hélène  had  come  back  to  the  drawing-room  with  her 
father,  and  was  listening  attentively.  So  well  did  she 
understand  all  that  was  said,  that  she  gave  her  mother  a 
frightened  glance,  feeling,  with  a  child's  quick  instinct, 
that  these  remarks  would  aggravate  the  punishment 
hanging  over  her.  The  Marquise  turned  her  white  face 
to  Vandenesse  ;  and,  with  terror  in  her  eyes,  indicated 


140 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


her  husband,  who  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  absently  on 
the  flower  pattern  of  the  carpet.  The  diplomatist, 
accomplished  man  of  the  world  though  he  was,  could  no 
longer  contain  his  wrath,  he  gave  the  man  of  law  a 
withering  glance. 

'  Step  this  way,  sir,'  he  said,  and  he  went  hurriedly  to 
the  door  of  the  ante-chamber;  the  notary  left  his  sentence 
half  finished,  and  followed,  quaking,  and  the  husband  and 
wife  were  left  together. 

c  Now,  sir,'  said  the  Marquis  de  Vandenesse — he 
banged  the  drawing-room  door,  and  spoke  with  con- 
centrated rage — cever  since  dinner  you  have  done  nothing 
but  make  blunders  and  talk  folly.  For  heaven's  sake,  go. 
You  will  make  the  most  frightful  mischief  before  you 
have  done.  If  you  are  a  clever  man  in  your  profession, 
keep  to  your  profession  ;  and  if  by  any  chance  you  should 
go  into  society,  endeavour  to  be  more  circumspect.' 

With  that  he  went  back  to  the  drawing-room,  and  did 
not  even  wish  the  notary  good-evening.  For  a  moment 
that  worthy  stood  dumbfounded,  bewildered,  utterly  at 
a  loss.  Then,  when  the  buzzing  in  his  ears  subsided, 
he  thought  he  heard  some  one  moaning  in  the  next 
room.  Footsteps  came  and  went,  and  bells  were  violently 
rung.  He  was  by  no  means  anxious  to  meet  the  Marquis 
again,  and  found  the  use  of  his  legs  to  make  good  his 
escape,  only  to  run  against  a  hurrying  crowd  of  servants 
at  the  door. 

c  Just  the  way  with  all  these  grand  folk,'  said  he  to 
himself  outside  in  the  street  as  he  looked  about  for  a 
cab.  'They  lead  you  on  to  talk  with  compliments,  and 
you  think  you  are  amusing  them.  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
They  treat  you  insolently  ;  put  you  at  a  distance  ;  even 
put  you  out  at  the  door  without  scruple.  After  all,  I 
talked  very  cleverly,  I  said  nothing  but  what  was 
sensible,  well  turned,  and  discreet  ;  and,  upon  my  word, 
he  advises  me  to  be  more  circumspect  in  future.  I  will 
take  good  care  of  that  !  Eh  !  the  mischief  take  it  !  I 
am  a  notary  and  a  member  of  my  chamber  ! — Pshaw  ! 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


141 


it  was  an  ambassador's  fit  of  temper,  nothing  is  sacred 
for  people  of  that  kind.  To-morrow  he  shall  explain 
what  he  meant  by  saying  that  I  had  done  nothing  but 
blunder  and  talk  nonsense  in  his  house.  I  will  ask 
him  for  an  explanation — that  is,  I  will  ask  him  to 
explain  my  mistake.  After  all  is  done  and  said,  I  am 
in  the  wrong  perhaps   Upon  my  word,  it  is  very 

!  good  of  me  to  cudgel  my  brains  like  this.  What 
business  is  it  of  mine  ?  ' 

So  the  notary  went  home  and  laid  the  enigma  before 
his  spouse,  with  a  complete  account  of  the  evening's 
events  related  in  sequence. 

And  she  replied, c  My  dear  Crottat,  His  Excellency  was 

I  perfectly  right  when  he  said  that  you  had  done  nothing 
but  blunder  and  talk  folly/ 
<  Why  ?  ' 

4  My  dear,  if  I  told  you  why,  it  would  not  prevent 
you  from  doing  the  same  thing  somewhere  else  to- 
morrow. I  tell  you  again — talk  of  nothing  but  business 
!  when  you  go  out  ;  that  is  my  advice  to  you.' 

4  If  you  will  not  tell  me,  I  shall  ask  him  to-morrow 

4  Why,  dear  me  !  the  veriest  noodle  is  careful  to  hide  a 
thing  of  that  kind,  and  do  you  suppose  that  an  ambassa- 
dor will  tell  you  about  it  ?  Really,  Crottat,  I  have 
[never  known  you  so  utterly  devoid  of  common-sense.' 

i  Thank  you,  my  dear.' 

V 

TWO  MEETINGS 

One  of  Napoleon's  orderly  staff-officers,  who  shall  be 
known  in  this  history  only  as  the  General  or  the 
iMarquis,  had  come  to  spend  the  spring  at  Versailles. 
He  had  made  a  large  fortune  under  the  Restoration  ;  and 
as  his  place  at  Court  would  not  allow  him  to  go  very 


142  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

far  from  Paris,  he  had  taken  a  country  house  between 
the  church  and  the  barrier  of  Montreuil,  on  the  road 
that  leads  to  the  Avenue  de  Saint-Cloud. 

The  house  had  been  built  originally  as  a  retreat  for 
the  short-lived  loves  of  some  grand  seigneur.  The 
grounds  were  very  large  ;  the  gardens  on  either  side 
extending  from  the  first  houses  of  Montreuil  to  the 
thatched  cottages  near  the  barrier,  so  that  the  owner 
could  enjoy  all  the  pleasures  of  solitude  with  the  city 
almost  at  his  gates.  By  an  odd  piece  of  contradiction, 
the  whole  front  of  the  house  itself,  with  the  principal 
entrance,  gave  directly  upon  the  street.  Perhaps  in 
time  past  it  was  a  tolerably  lonely  road,  and  indeed  this 
theory  looks  all  the  more  probable  when  one  comes  to 
think  of  it  ;  for  not  so  very  far  away,  on  this  same  road, 
Louis  Quinze  built  a  delicious  summer  villa  for  Mile, 
de  Romans,  and  the  curious  in  such  things  will  discover  ] 
that  the  wayside  casinos  are  adorned  in  a  style  that 
recalls  traditions  of  the  ingenious  taste  displayed  in 
debauchery  by  our  ancestors  who,  with  all  the  licence 
laid  to  their  charge,  sought  to  invest  it  with  secrecy 
and  mystery. 

One  winter  evening  the  family  were  by  themselves 
in  the  lonely  house.  The  servants  had  received  per- 
mission to  go  to  Versailles  to  celebrate  the  wedding  of 
one  of  their  number.  It  was  Christmas  time,  and  the 
holiday  makers,  presuming  upon  the  double  festival,  did 
not  scruple  to  outstay  their  leave  of  absence  ;  yet,  as  the 
General  was  well  known  to  be  a  man  of  his  word,  the 
culprits  felt  some  twinges  of  conscience  as  they  danced 
on  after  the  hour  of  return.  The  clocks  struck  eleven, 
and  still  there  was  no  sign  of  the  servants. 

A  deep  silence  prevailed  over  the  country-side,  broken 
only  by  the  sound  of  the  north-east  wind  whistling 
through  the  black  branches,  wailing  about  the  house,  ; 
dying  in  gusts  along  the  corridors.  The  hard  frost  had 
purified  the  air,  and  held  the  earth  in  its  grip  ;  the  roads 
gave  back  every  sound  with  the  hard  metallic  ring  which  \ 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


always  strikes  us  with  a  new  surprise  ;  the  heavy  foot- 
steps of  some  belated  reveller,  or  a  cab  returning  to 
Paris,  could  be  heard  for  a  long  distance  with  unwonted 
distinctness.  Out  in  the  courtyard  a  few  dead  leaves 
set  a-dancing  by  some  eddying  gust  found  a  voice  for 
the  night  which  fain  had  been  silent.  It  was,  in  fact, 
one  of  those  sharp,  frosty  evenings  that  wring  barren 
expressions  of  pity  from  our  selfish  ease  for  wayfarers  and 
the  poor,  and  fills  us  with  a  luxurious  sense  of  the 
comfort  of  the  fireside. 

But  the  family  party  in  the  salon  at  that  hour  gave 
not  a  thought  to  absent  servants  nor  houseless  folk,  nor 
to  the  gracious  charm  with  which  a  winter  even- 
ing sparkles.  No  one  played  the  philosopher  out  of 
season.  Secure  in  the  protection  of  an  old  soldier, 
women  and  children  gave  themselves  up  to  the  joys  of 
home  life,  so  delicious  when  there  is  no  restraint  upon 
feeling  ;  and  talk  and  play  and  glances  are  bright  with 
frankness  and  affection. 

The  General  sat,  or  more  properly  speaking,  lay  buried, 
in  the  depths  of  a  huge,  high-back  armchair  by  the 
hearth.  The  heaped-up  fire  burnt  scorching  clear 
with  the  excessive  cold  of  the  night.  The  good  father 
leant  his  head  slightly  to  one  side  against  the  back  of 
the  chair,  in  the  indolence  of  perfect  serenity  and  a  glow 
of  happiness.  The  languid,  half-sleepy  droop  of  his 
outstretched  arms  seemed  to  complete  his  expression  of 
placid  content.  He  was  watching  his  youngest,  a  boy 
of  five  or  thereabouts,  who,  half  clad  as  he  was,  declined 
to  allow  his  mother  to  undress  him.  The  little  one 
fled  from  the  night-gown  and  cap  with  which  he  was 
threatened  now  and  again,  and  stoutly  declined  to 
part  with  his  embroidered  collar,  laughing  when  his 
mother  called  to  him,  for  he  saw  that  she  too  was  laugh- 
ing at  this  declaration  of  infant  independence.  The 
next  step  was  to  go  back  to  a  game  of  romps  with  his 
sister.  She  was  as  much  a  child  as  he,  but  more 
mischievous  ;  and  she  was  older  by  two  years,  and  could 


144 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


speak  distinctly  already,  whereas  his  inarticulate  words 
and  confused  ideas  were  a  puzzle  even  to  his  parents. 
Little  Moi'na's  playfulness,  somewhat  coquettish  already, 
provoked  inextinguishable  laughter,  explosions  of  merri- 
ment which  went  off  like  fireworks  for  no  apparent 
cause.  As  they  tumbled  about  before  the  fire,  uncon- 
cernedly displaying  little  plump  bodies  and  delicate  white 
contours,  as  the  dark  and  golden  curls  mingled  in  a 
collision  of  rosy  cheeks  dimpled  with  childish  glee,  a 
father  surely,  a  mother  most  certainly,  must  have  under- 
stood those  little  souls,  and  seen  the  character  and  power 
of  passion  already  developed  for  their  eyese  As  the 
cherubs  frolicked  about,  struggling,  rolling,  and  tumbling 
without  fear  of  hurt  on  the  soft  carpet,  its  flowers  looked 
pale  beside  the  glowing  white  and  red  of  their  cheeks 
and  the  brilliant  colour  of  their  shining  eyes. 

On  the  sofa  by  the  fire,  opposite  the  great  armchair, 
the  children's  mother  sat  among  a  heap  of  scattered 
garments,  with  a  little  scarlet  shoe  in  her  hand.  She 
seemed  to  have  given  herself  up  completely  to  the 
enjoyment  of  the  moment  ;  wavering  discipline  had 
relaxed  into  a  sweet  smile  engraved  upon  her  lips. 
At  the  age  of  six-and-thirty,  or  thereabouts,  she  was 
a  beautiful  woman  still,  by  reason  of  the  rare  perfec- 
tion of  the  outlines  of  her  face,  and  at  this  moment 
light  and  warmth  and  happiness  filled  it  with  preter- 
natural brightness. 

Again  and  again  her  eyes  wandered  from  her  children, 
and  their  tender  gaze  was  turned  upon  her  husband's 
grave  face  ;  and  now  and  again  the  eyes  of  husband  and 
wife  met  with  a  silent  exchange  of  happiness  and 
thoughts  from  some  inner  depth. 

The  General's  face  was  deeply  bronzed,  a  stray  lock 
of  grey  hair  scored  shadows  on  his  forehead.  The 
reckless  courage  of  the  battlefield  could  be  read  in  the 
lines  carved  in  his  hollow  cheeks,  and  gleams  of  rugged 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


145 


strength  in  the  blue  eyes  ;  clearly  the  bit  of  red  ribbon 
flaunting  at  his  button-hole  had  been  paid  for  by  hard- 
ship and  toil.  An  inexpressible  kindliness  and  frankness 
shone  out  of  the  strong,  resolute  face  which  reflected  his 
children's  merriment  ;  the  grey-haired  captain  found  it 
not  so  very  hard  to  become  a  child  again.  Is  there 
not  always  a  little  love  of  children  in  the  heart  of  a 
soldier  who  has  seen  enough  of  the  seamy  side  of  life  to 
know  something  of  the  piteous  limitations  of  strength 
and  the  privileges  of  weakness  ? 

At  a  round  table  rather  further  away,  in  a  circle  of 
bright  lamplight  that  dimmed  the  feebler  illumination  of 
the  wax  candles  on  the  chimneypiece,  sat  a  boy  of  thir- 
teen, rapidly  turning  the  pages  of  a  thick  volume  which 
he  was  reading,  undisturbed  by  the  shouts  of  the  children. 
There  was  a  boy's  curiosity  in  his  face.  From  his 
lycéens  uniform  he  was  evidently  a  schoolboy,  and  the 
book  he  was  reading  was  the  Arabian  Nights.  Small 
wonder  that  he  was  deeply  absorbed.  He  sat  perfectly 
sail  in  a  meditative  attitude,  with  his  elbow  on  the 
table,  and  his  hand  propping  his  head — the  white  fingers 
contrasting  strongly  with  the  brown  hair  into  which 
they  were  thrust.  As  he  sat,  with  the  light  turned  full 
upon  his  face,  and  the  rest  of  his  body  in  shadow,  he 
looked  like  one  of  Rafael's  dark  portraits  of  himself — a 
bent  head  and  intent  eyes  filled  with  visions  of  the 
future. 

Between  the  table  and  the  Marquise  a  tall,  beautiful 
girl  sat  at  her  tapestry  frame  ;  sometimes  she  drew  back 
from  her  work,  sometimes  she  bent  over  it,  and  her  hair, 
picturesque  in  its  ebony  smoothness  and  darkness,  caught 
the  light  of  the  lamp.  Hélène  was  a  picture  in  herself. 
In  her  beauty  there  was  a  rare  distinctive  character  of 
power  and  refinement.  Though  her  hair  was  gathered 
up  and  drawn  back  from  her  face,  so  as  to  trace  a  clearly 
marked  line  about  her  head,  so  thick  and  abundant  was 
it,  so  recalcitrant  to  the  comb,  that  it  sprang  back  in 

K 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


curl-tendrils  to  the  nape  of  her  neck.  The  bountiful 
line  of  eyebrows  was  evenly  marked  out  in  dark  con- 
trasting outline  upon  her  pure  forehead.  On  her  upper 
lip,  beneath  the  Grecian  nose  with  its  sensitively  perfect 
curve  of  nostril,  there  lay  a  faint,  swarthy  shadow,  the 
sign-manual  of  courage  ;  but  the  enchanting  roundness 
of  contour,  the  frankly  innocent  expression  of  her  other 
features,  the  transparence  of  the  delicate  carnations,  the 
voluptuous  softness  of  the  lips,  the  flawless  oval  of  the 
outline  of  the  face,  and  with  these,  and  more  than  all 
these,  the  saintlike  expression  in  the  girlish  eyes,  gave  to 
her  vigorous  loveliness  the  distinctive  touch  of  feminine 
grace,  that  enchanting  modesty  which  we  look  for  in 
these  angels  of  peace  and  love.  Yet  there  was  no 
suggestion  of  fragility  about  her  ;  and,  surely,  with  so 
grand  a  woman's  frame,  so  attractive  a  face,  she  must 
possess  a  corresponding  warmth  of  heart  and  strength 
of  soul. 

She  was  as  silent  as  her  school-boy  brother.  Seemingly 
a  prey  to  the  fateful  maiden  meditations  which  baffle  a 
father's  penetration  and  even  a  mother's  sagacity,  it  was 
impossible  to  be  certain  whether  it  was  the  lamplight 
that  cast  those  shadows  that  flitted  over  her  face  like 
thin  clouds  over  a  bright  sky,  or  whether  they  were 
passing  shades  of  secret  and  painful  thoughts. 

Husband  and  wife  had  quite  forgotten  the  two  older 
children  at  that  moment,  though  now  and  again  the 
General's  questioning  glance  travelled  to  that  second 
mute  picture  ;  a  larger  growth,  a  gracious  realisation,  as 
it  were,  of  the  hopes  embodied  in  the  baby  forms  rioting 
in  the  foreground.  Their  faces  made  up  a  kind  of 
living  poem,  illustrating  life's  various  phases.  The 
luxurious  background  of  the  salon,  the  different  atti- 
tudes, the  strong  contrasts  of  colouring  in  the  faces,  differ- 
ing with  the  character  of  differing  ages,  the  modelling  of 
the  forms  brought  into  high  relief  by  the  light — altogether 
it  was  a  page  of  human  life,  richly  illuminated  beyond 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


147 


the  art  of  painter,  sculptor,  or  poet.  Silence,  solitude, 
night,  and  winter  lent  a  final  touch  of  majesty  to  com- 
plete the  simplicity  and  sublimity  of  this  exquisite  effect 
of  nature's  contriving.  Married  life  is  full  of  these 
sacred  hours,  which  perhaps  owe  their  indefinable  charm 
to  some  vague  memory  of  a  better  world.  A  divine 
radiance  surely  shines  upon  them,  the  destined  com- 
pensation for  some  portion  of  earth's  sorrows,  the  solace 
which  enables  man  to  accept  life.  We  seem  to  behold  a 
vision  of  an  enchanted  universe,  the  great  conception  of 
its  system  widens  out  before  our  eyes,  and  social  life 
pleads  for  its  laws  by  bidding  us  look  to  the  future. 

Yet  in  spite  of  the  tender  glances  that  Hélène  gave 
Abel  and  Moïna  after  a  fresh  outburst  of  merriment  ;  in 
spite  of  the  look  of  gladness  in  her  transparent  face 
whenever  she  stole  a  glance  at  her  father,  a  deep  melan- 
choly pervaded  her  gestures,  her  attitude,  and  more  than 
all,  her  eyes  veiled  by  their  long  lashes.  Those  white, 
strong  hands,  through  which  the  light  passed,  tinting 
them  with  a  diaphanous  almost  fluid  red — those  hands 
were  trembling.  Once  only  did  the  eyes  of  the  mother 
and  daughter  clash  without  shrinking,  and  the  two 
women  read  each  other's  thoughts  in  a  look,  cold,  wan, 
and  respectful  on  Hélène's  part,  sombre  and  threatening 
on  her  mother's.  At  once  Hélène's  eyes  were  lowered 
to  her  work,  she  plied  her  needle  swiftly,  and  it  was  long 
before  she  raised  her  head,  bowed  as  it  seemed  by  a 
weight  of  thought  too  heavy  to  bear.  Was  the  Mar- 
quise over  harsh  with  this  one  of  her  children  ?  Did 
she  think  this  harshness  needful  ?  Was  she  jealous  of 
Hélène's  beauty  ? — She  might  still  hope  to  rival  Hélène, 
but  only  by  the  magic  arts  of  the  toilette.  Or  again, 
had  her  daughter,  like  many  a  girl  who  reaches  the 
clairvoyant  age,  read  the  secrets  which  this  wife  (to  all 
appearance  so  religiously  faithful  in  the  fulfilment  of  her 
duties)  believed  to  be  buried  in  her  own  heart  as  deeply 
as  in  a  grave  ? 


148  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

Hélène  had  reached  an  age  when  purity  of  soul 
inclines  to  pass  over-rigid  judgments.  A  certain  order 
of  mind  is  apt  to  exaggerate  transgression  into  crime  ; 
imagination  re-acts  upon  conscience,  and  a  young  girl  is 
a  hard  judge  because  she  magnifies  the  seriousness  of  the 
offence.  Hélène  seemed  to  think  herself  worthy  of  no 
one.  Perhaps  there  was  a  secret  in  her  past  life,  perhaps 
something  had  happened,  unintelligible  to  her  at  the 
time,  but  with  gradually  developing  significance  for  a 
mind  grown  susceptible  to  religious  influences  ;  some- 
thing which  lately  seemed  to  have  degraded  her,  as  it 
were,  in  her  own  eyes,  and  according  to  her  own 
romantic  standard.  This  change  in  her  demeanour 
dated  from  the  day  of  reading  Schiller's  noble  tragedy  of 
Wilhelm  Tell  in  a  new  series  of  translations.  Her 
mother  scolded  her  for  letting  the  book  fall,  and  then 
remarked  to  herself  that  the  passage  which  had  so 
worked  on  Hélène's  feelings  was  the  scene  in  which 
Wilhelm  Tell,  who  spilt  the  blood  of  a  tyrant  to  save  a 
nation,  fraternises  in  some  sort  with  John  the  Parricide. 
Hélène  had  grown  humble,  dutiful,  and  self-contained  ; 
she  no  longer  cared  for  gaiety.  Never  had  she  made  so 
much  of  her  father,  especially  when  the  Marquise  was 
not  by  to  watch  her  girlish  caresses.  And  yet,  if 
Hélène's  affection  for  her  mother  had  cooled  at  all,  the 
change  in  her  manner  was  so  slight  as  to  be  almost  im- 
perceptible ;  so  slight  that  the  General  could  not  have 
noticed  it,  jealous  though  he  might  be  of  the  harmony 
of  home.  No  masculine  insight  could  have  sounded  the 
depths  of  those  two  feminine  natures  ;  the  one  was 
young  and  generous,  the  other  sensitive  and  proud  ;  the 
first  had  a  wealth  of  indulgence  in  her  nature,  the 
second  was  full  of  craft  and  love.  If  the  Marquise  made 
her  daughter's  life  a  burden  to  her  by  a  woman's  subtle- 
tyranny,  it  was  a  tyranny  invisible  to  all  but  the  victim  ; 
and  for  the  rest,  these  conjectures  only  called  forth  after 
the  event  must  remain  conjectures.     Until  this  night 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


149 


no  accusing  flash  of  light  had  escaped  either  of  them, 
but  an  ominous  mystery  was  too  surely  growing  up 
between  them,  a  mystery  known  only  to  themselves  and 
God. 

4  Come,  Abel,'  called  the  Marquise,  seizing  on  her 
opportunity  when  the  children  were  tired  of  play  and 
still  for  a  moment.  c  Come,  come,  child  ;  you  must  be 
put  to  bed  9 

And  with  a  glance  that  must  be  obeyed,  she  caught 
him  up  and  took  him  on  her  knee. 

4  What  ! 9  exclaimed  the  General.  c  Half-past  ten 
o'clock,  and  not  one  of  the  servants  has  come  back  ! 
The  rascals  ! — Gustave,'  he  added,  turning  to  his  son, 
4 1  allowed  you  to  read  that  book  only  on  the  condition 
that  you  should  put  it  away  at  ten  o'clock.  You  ought 
to  have  shut  up  the  book  at  the  proper  time  and  gone  to 
bed,  as  you  promised.  If  you  mean  to  make  your  mark 
in  the  world,  you  must  keep  your  word  ;  let  it  be  a 
second  religion  to  you  and  a  point  of  honour.  Fox, 
one  of  the  greatest  of  English  orators,  was  remarkable, 
above  all  things,  for  the  beauty  of  his  character,  and  the 
very  first  of  his  qualities  was  the  scrupulous  faithfulness 
with  which  he  kept  his  engagements.  When  he  was  a 
child,  his  father  (an  Englishman  of  the  old  school)  gave 
him  a  pretty  strong  lesson  which  he  never  forgot.  Like 
most  rich  Englishmen,  Fox's  father  had  a  country  house 
and  a  considerable  park  about  it.  Now,  in  the  park 
there  was  an  old  summer-house,  and  orders  had  been 
given  that  this  summer-house  was  to  be  pulled  down  and 
put  up  somewhere  else  where  there  was  a  finer  view. 
Fox  was  just  about  your  age,  and  had  come  home  for 
the  holidays.  Boys  are  fond  of  seeing  things  pulled  to 
pieces,  so  young  Fox  asked  to  stay  on  at  home  for  a  few 
days  longer  to  see  the  old  summer-house  taken  down  ; 
but  his  father  said  that  he  must  go  back  to  school  on  the 
proper  day,  so  there  was  anger  between  father  and  son. 
Fox's  mother  (like  all  mammas)  took  the  boy's  part. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


Then  the  father  solemnly  promised  that  the  summer- 
house  should  stay  where  it  was  till  the  next  holidays. 

c  So  Fox  went  back  to  school  ;  and  his  father,  thinking 
that  lessons  would  soon  drive  the  whole  thing  out  of  the 
boy's  mind,  had  the  summer-house  pulled  down  and  put 
up  in  the  new  position.  But  as  it  happened,  the  per- 
sistent youngster  thought  of  nothing  but  that  summer- 
house  ;  and  as  soon  as  he  came  home  again,  his  first  care 
was  to  go  out  to  look  at  the  old  building,  and  he  came 
in  to  breakfast  looking  quite  doleful,  and  said  to  his 
father,  "You  have  broken  your  promise."  The  old 
English  gentleman  said  with  confusion  full  of  dignity, 
u  That  is  true,  my  boy  ;  but  I  will  make  amends.  A 
man  ought  to  think  of  keeping  his  word  before  he  thinks 
of  his  fortune  ;  for  by  keeping  to  his  word  he  will  gain 
fortune,  while  all  the  fortunes  in  the  world  will  Hot 
efface  the  stain  left  on  your  conscience  by  a  breach  of 
faith."  Then  he  gave  orders  that  the  summer-house 
should  be  put  up  again  in  the  old  place,  and  when  it  had 
been  rebuilt  he  had  it  taken  down  again  for  his  son  to 
see.    Let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you,  Gustave.' 

Gustave  had  been  listening  with  interest,  and  now  he 
closed  the  book  at  once.  There  was  a  moment's  silence, 
while  the  General  took  possession  of  Moïna,  who  could 
scarcely  keep  her  eyes  open.  The  little  one's  languid 
head  fell  back  on  her  father's  breast,  and  in  a  moment 
she  was  fast  asleep,  wrapped  round  about  in  her  golden 
curls. 

Just  then  a  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  rang  on  the 
pavement  out  in  the  street,  immediately  followed  by 
three  knocks  on  the  street  door,  waking  the  echoes  of  the 
house.  The  reverberating  blows  told,  as  plainly  as  a 
cry  for  help,  that  here  was  a  man  flying  for  his  life. 
The  house  dog  barked  furiously.  A  thrill  of  excitement 
ran  through  Hélène  and  Gustave  and  the  General  and 
his  wife  ;  but  neither  Abel,  with  the  night-cap  strings 
just  tied  under  his  chin,  nor  Moïna  awoke. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


c  The  fellow  is  in  a  hurry  !  '  exclaimed  the  General, 
He  put  the  little  girl  down  on  the  chair,  and  hastened 
out  of  the  room,  heedless  of  his  wife's  entreating  cry, 
c  Dear,  do  not  go  down  9 

He  stepped  into  his  own  room  for  a  pair  of  pistols, 
lighted  a  dark  lantern,  sprang  at  lightning  speed  down 
the  staircase,  and  in  another  minute  reached  the  house 
door,  his  oldest  boy  fearlessly  following. 

i  Who  is  there  ?  '  demanded  he, 

4  Let  me  in/  panted  a  breathless  voice. 

€  Are  you  a  friend  ?  ' 

1  Yes,  friend.' 

1  Are  you  alone  ?  ' 

4  Yes  !    But  let  me  in  ;  they  are  after  me  !  ' 

The  General  had  scarcely  set  the  door  ajar  before  a 
man  slipped  into  the  porch  with  the  uncanny  swiftness 
of  a  shadow.  Before  the  master  of  the  house  could 
prevent  him,  the  intruder  had  closed  the  door  with  a 
well-directed  kick,  and  set  his  back  against  it  resolutely, 
as  if  he  were  determined  that  it  should  not  be  opened 
again.  In  a  moment  the  General  had  his  lantern  and 
pistol  at  a  level  with  the  stranger's  breast,  and  beheld  a 
man  of  medium  height  in  a  fur-lined  pelisse.  It  was  an 
old  man's  garment,  both  too  large  and  too  long  for  its 
present  wearer.  Chance  or  caution  had  slouched  the 
man's  hat  over  his  eyes. 

c  You  can  lower  your  pistol,  sir,'  said  this  person.  c  I  do 
not  claim  to  stay  in  your  house  against  your  will  ;  but  if 
I  leave  it,  death  is  waiting  for  me  at  the  barrier.  And 
what  a  death  !  You  would  be  answerable  to  God  for  it  ! 
I  ask  for  your  hospitality  for  two  hours.  And  bear  this 
in  mind,  sir,  that,  suppliant  as  I  am,  I  have  a  right  to 
command  with  the  despotism  of  necessity.  I  want  the 
Arab's  hospitality.  Either  I  and  my  secret  must  be 
inviolable,  or  open  the  door  and  I  will  go  to  my  death. 
I  want  secrecy,  a  safe  hiding-place,  and  water.  Oh  ! 
water  !  '  he  cried  again,  with  a  rattle  in  his  throat. 


152  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

c  Who  are  you  ?  '  demanded  the  General,  taken  aback 
by  the  stranger's  feverish  volubility. 

c  Ah  !  who  am  I  ?  Good,  open  the  door,  and  I  will 
put  a  distance  between  us,'  retorted  the  other,  and  there 
was  a  diabolical  irony  in  his  tone. 

Dexterously  as  the  Marquis  passed  the  light  of  the 
lantern  over  the  man's  face,  he  could  only  see  the  lower  half 
of  it,  and  that  in  nowise  prepossessed  him  in  favour  of  this 
singular  claimant  of  hospitality.  The  cheeks  were  livid 
and  quivering,  the  features  dreadfully  contorted.  Under 
the  shadow  of  the  hat-brim  a  pair  of  eyes  gleamed  out 
like  flames;  the  feeble  candle-light  looked  almost  dim  in 
comparison.  Some  sort  of  answer  must  be  made  however. 

'Your  language,  sir,  is  so  extraordinary  that  in  my 
place  you  yourself  ' 

4 My  life  is  in  your  hands!'  the  intruder  broke  in. 
The  sound  of  his  voice  was  dreadful  to  hear. 

c  Two  hours  ?  '  said  the  Marquis,  wavering. 

c  Two  hours,'  echoed  the  other. 

Then  quite  suddenly,  with  a  desperate  gesture,  he 
pushed  back  his  hat  and  left  his  forehead  bare,  and,  as  if 
he  meant  to  try  a  final  expedient,  he  gave  the  General  a 
glance  that  seemed  to  plunge  like  a  vivid  flash  into  his 
very  soul.  That  electrical  discharge  of  intelligence  and 
will  was  swift  as  lightning  and  crushing  as  a  thunder- 
bolt ;  for  there  are  moments  when  a  human  being  is 
invested  for  a  brief  space  with  inexplicable  power. 

c  Come,  whoever  you  may  be,  you  shall  be  in  safety 
under  my  roof,'  the  master  of  the  house  said  gravely  at 
last,  acting,  as  he  imagined,  upon  one  of  those  intuitions 
which  a  man  cannot  always  explain  to  himself. 

c  God  will  repay  you  !  '  said  the  stranger,  with  a  deep, 
involuntary  sigh. 

c  Have  you  weapons  ?  '  asked  the  General. 

For  all  answer  the  stranger  flung  open  his  fur  pelisse, 
and  scarcely  gave  the  other  time  for  a  glance  before  he 
wrapped  it  about  him  again.    To  all  appearance  he  was 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  153 

unarmed  and  in  evening  dress.  Swift  as  the  soldier's 
scrutiny  had  been,  he  saw  something,  however,  which 
made  him  exclaim — 

'Where  the  devil  have  you  been  to  get  yourself  in 
such  a  mess  in  such  dry  weather  ?  9 

c  More  questions  ! 9  said  the  stranger  haughtily. 

At  the  words  the  Marquis  caught  sight  of  his  son,  and 
his  own  late  homily  on  the  strict  fulfilment  of  a  given 
word  came  up  in  his  mind.  In  lively  vexation,  he 
exclaimed,  not  without  a  touch  of  anger — 

6  What  !  little  rogue,  you  here  when  you  ought  to  be 
in  bed  ?  9 

c  Because  I  thought  I  might  be  of  some  good  in 
danger,'  answered  Gustave. 

c  There,  go  up  to  your  room,'  said  his  father,  mollified 
by  the  reply. — *  And  you  '  (addressing  the  stranger), 
'  come  with  me.' 

The  two  men  grew  as  silent  as  a  pair  of  gamblers 
who  watch  each  other's  play  with  mutual  suspicions. 
The  General  himself  began  to  be  troubled  with  ugly 
presentiments.  The  strange  visit  weighed  upon  his 
mind  already  like  a  nightmare  ;  but  he  had  passed  his 
word,  there  was  no  help  for  it  now,  and  he  led  the  way 
along  the  passages  and  stairways  till  they  reached  a  large 
room  on  the  second  floor  immediately  above  the  salon. 
This  was  an  empty  room  where  linen  was  dried  in  the 
winter.  It  had  but  the  one  door,  and  for  all  decora- 
tion boasted  one  solitary  shabby  looking-glass  above 
the  chimney-piece,  left  by  the  previous  owner,  and  a 
great  pier  glass,  placed  provisionally  opposite  the  fire- 
place until  such  time  as  a  use  should  be  found  for  it 
in  the  rooms  below.  The  four  yellowish  walls  were  bare. 
The  floor  had  never  been  swept.  The  huge  attic  was 
icy-cold,  and  the  furniture  consisted  of  a  couple  of 
rickety  straw-bottomed  chairs,  or  rather  frames  of  chairs. 
The  General  set  the  lantern  down  upon  the  chimney- 
piece.    Then  he  spoke — 


154 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


4  It  is  necessary  for  your  own  safety  to  hide  you  ?n 
this  comfortless  attic.  And,  as  you  have  my  promise  to 
keep  your  secret,  you  will  permit  me  to  lock  you  in.' 

The  other  bent  his  head  in  acquiescence. 

4 1  asked  for  nothing  but  a  hiding-place,  secrecy,  and 
water,'  returned  he. 

4  I  will  bring  you  some  directly,'  said  the  Marquis, 
shutting  the  door  cautiously.  He  groped  his  way  down 
into  the  salon  for  a  lamp  before  going  to  the  kitchen 
to  look  for  a  carafe. 

4  Well,  what  is  it  ?  the  Marquise  asked  quickly. 

4  Nothing,  dear,'  he  returned  coolly. 

4  But  we  listened,  and  we  certainly  heard  you  go 
upstairs  with  somebody.' 

4  Hélène,'  said  the  General,  and  he  looked  at  his 
daughter,  who  raised  her  face,  4  bear  in  mind  that  your 
father's  honour  depends  upon  your  discretion.  You 
must  have  heard  nothing.' 

The  girl  bent  her  head  in  answer.  The  Marquise 
was  confused  and  smarting  inwardly  at  the  way  in  which 
her  husband  had  thought  fit  to  silence  her, 

Meanwhile  the  General  went  for  the  bottle  and  a 
tumbler,  and  returned  to  the  room  above.  His  prisoner 
was  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece,  his  head  was 
bare,  he  had  flung  down  his  hat  on  one  of  the  two 
chairs.  Evidently  he  had  not  expected  to  have  so  bright 
a  light  turned  upon  him,  and  he  frowned  and  looked 
anxious  as  he  met  the  General's  keen  eyes  ;  but  his  face 
softened  and  wore  a  gracious  expression  as  he  thanked 
his  protector.  When  the  latter  placed  the  bottle  and 
glass  on  the  mantel-shelf,  the  stranger's  eyes  flashed  out 
on  him  again  ;  and  when  he  spoke,  it  was  in  musical 
tones  with  no  sign  of  the  previous  guttural  convulsion, 
though  his  voice  was  still  unsteady  with  repressed 
emotion. 

4 1  shall  seem  to  you  to  be  a  strange  being,  sir,  but 
you  must  pardon  the  caprices  of  necessity.    If  you  pro- 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


155 


pose  to  remain  in  the  room,  I  beg  that  you  will  not  look 
at  me  while  I  am  drinking.' 

Vexed  at  this  continual  obedience  to  a  man  whom  he 
disliked,  the  General  sharply  turned  his  back  upon  him. 
The  stranger  thereupon  drew  a  white  handkerchief  from 
his  pocket  and  wound  it  about  his  right  hand.  Then  he 
seized  the  carafe  and  emptied  it  at  a  draught.  The  Mar- 
quis, staring  vacantly  into  the  tall  mirror  across  the  room, 
without  a  thought  of  breaking  his  implicit  promise,  saw 
the  stranger's  figure  distinctly  reflected  by  the  opposite 
looking-glass,  and  saw,  too,  a  red  stain  suddenly  appear 
through  the  folds  of  the  white  bandage — the  man's 
hands  were  steeped  in  blood. 

*  Ah  !  you  saw  me  !  '  cried  the  other.  He  had  drunk 
off  the  water  and  wrapped  himself  again  in  his  cloak, 
and  now  scrutinised  the  General  suspiciously.  *  It  is 
all  over  with  me  !    Here  they  come  !  ' 

'  I  don't  hear  anything,'  said  the  Marquis. 

4  You  have  not  the  same  interest  that  I  have  in  listen- 
ing for  sounds  in  the  air.' 

4  You  have  been  fighting  a  duel,  I  suppose,  to  be  in 
such  a  state  ?  '  queried  the  General,  not  a  little  disturbed 
by  the  colour  of  those  broad,  dark  patches  staining  his 
visitor's  cloak. 

4  Yes,  a  duel  ;  you  have  it,'  said  the  other,  and  a 
bitter  smile  flitted  over  his  lips. 

As  he  spoke  a  sound  rang  along  the  distant  road,  a 
sound  of  galloping  horses  ;  but  so  faint  as  yet,  that  it 
was  the  merest  dawn  of  a  sound.  The  General's 
trained  ear  recognised  the  advance  of  a  troop  of 
regulars. 

4  That  is  the  gendarmerie,'  said  he. 

He  glanced  at  his  prisoner  to  reassure  him  after  his 
own  involuntary  indiscretion,  took  the  lamp,  and  went 
down  to  the  salon.  He  had  scarcely  laid  the  key  of  the 
room  above  upon  the  chimney-piece  when  the  hoof 
beats  sounded  louder,  and  came  swiftly  nearer  and  nearer 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


the  house.  The  General  felt  a  shiver  of  excitement,  and 
indeed  the  horses  stopped  at  the  house  door  ;  a  few 
words  were  exchanged  among  the  men,  and  one  of 
them  dismounted  and  knocked  loudly.  There  was  no 
help  for  it  ;  the  General  went  to  open  the  door.  He 
could  scarcely  conceal  his  inward  perturbation  at  the 
sight  of  half  a  dozen  gendarmes  outside,  the  metal  rims 
of  their  caps  gleaming  like  silver  in  the  moonlight. 

c  My  lord,'  said  the  corporal,  c  have  you  heard  a  man 
run  past  towards  the  barrier  within  the  last  few 
minutes  ?  * 

c  Towards  the  barrier  ?  No.' 

c  Have  you  opened  the  door  to  any  one  ? 1 

cNow,  am  I  in  the  habit  of  answering  the  door 
myself-  ?  ' 

4 1  ask  your  pardon,  General,  but  just  now  it  seems  to 
me  that  ' 

c  Really  !  '  cried  the  Marquis  wrathfully.  c  Have  you 
a  mind  to  try  joking  with  me  ?  What  right  have 
you  ?  ' 

c  None  at  all,  none  at  all,  my  lord,'  cried  the  corporal, 
hastily  putting  in  a  soft  answer.  c  You  will  excuse  our 
zeal.  We  know,  of  course,  that  a  peer  of  France  is  not 
likely  to  harbour  a  murderer  at  this  time  of  night  -y  but 
as  we  want  any  information  we  can  get  9 

c  A  murderer  !  '  cried  the  General.  c  Who  can  have 
been  ' 

*M.  le  Baron  de  Mauny  has  just  been  murdered.  It 
was  a  blow  from  an  axe,  and  we  are  in  hot  pursuit  of 
the  criminal.  We  know  for  certain  that  he  is  some- 
where in  this  neighbourhood,  and  we  shall  hunt  him 
down.  By  your  leave,  General,'  and  the  man  swung 
himself  into  the  saddle  as  he  spoke.  It  was  well  that  he 
did  so,  for  a  corporal  of  gendarmerie  trained  to  alert 
observation  and  quick  surmise  would  have  had  his  sus- 
picions at  once  if  he  had  caught  sight  of  the  General's 
face.  Everything  that  passed  through  the  soldier's 
mind  was  faithfully  revealed  in  his  frank  countenance. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


«57 


4  Is  it  known  who  the  murderer  is  ?  '  asked  he. 

4  No,'  said  the  other,  now  in  the  saddle.  4  He  left  the 
bureau  full  of  bank-notes  and  gold  untouched/ 

4  It  was  revenge,  then,'  said  the  Marquis. 

4  On  an  old  man  ?  pshaw  !  No,  no,  the  fellow 
hadn't  time  to  take  it,  that  was  all,'  and  the  corporal 
galloped  after  his  comrades,  who  were  almost  out  of 
sight  by  this  time. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  General  stood,  a  victim  to 
perplexities  which  need  no  explanation  ;  but  in  a  moment 
he  heard  the  servants  returning  home,  their  voices  were 
raised  in  some  sort  of  dispute  at  the  cross  roads  of 
Montreuil.  When  they  came  in,  he  gave  vent  to  his 
feelings  in  an  explosion  of  rage,  his  wrath  fell  upon 
them  like  a  thunderbolt,  and  all  the  echoes  of  the  house 
trembled  at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  In  the  midst  of  the 
storm  his  own  man,  the  boldest  and  cleverest  of  the 
party,  brought  out  an  excuse  ;  they  had  been  stopped,  he 
said,  by  the  gendarmerie  at  the  gate  of  Montreuil,  a 
murder  had  been  committed,  and  the  police  were  in 
pursuit.  In  a  moment  the  General's  anger  vanished,  he 
said  not  another  word  ;  then,  bethinking  himself  of  his 
own  singular  position,  drily  ordered  them  all  off  to  bed  at 
once,  and  left  them  amazed  at  his  readiness  to  accept 
their  fellow-servant's  lying  excuse. 

While  these  incidents  took  place  in  the  yard,  an 
apparently  trifling  occurrence  had  changed  the  relative 
positions  of  three  characters  in  this  story.  The 
Marquis  had  scarcely  left  the  room  before  his  wife  looked 
first  towards  the  key  on  the  mantelshelf,  and  then  at 
Hélène  ;  and,  after  some  wavering,  bent  towards  her 
daughter  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  4  Hélène,  your  father 
has  left  the  key  on  the  chimney-piece.' 

The  girl  looked  up  in  surprise  and  glanced  timidly  at 
her  mother.  The  Marquise's  eyes  sparkled  with 
curiosity. 

4  Well,  mamma  ?  '  she  said,  and  her  voice  had  a 
troubled  ring. 


iS* 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


4 1  should  like  to  know  what  is  going  on  upstairs. 
If  there  is  anybody  up  there,  he  has  not  stirred  yet. 
Just  go  up  ' 

c  If  *  cried  the  girl,  with  something  like  horror  in  her 
tones. 

c  Are  you  afraid  ?  f 

c  No,  mamma,  but  I  thought  I  heard  a  man's  foot- 
steps.' 

4  If  I  could  go  myself,  I  should  not  have  asked  you  to 
go,  Hélène,'  said  her  mother  with  cold  dignity.  6  If 
your  father  were  to  come  back  and  did  not  see  me,  he 
would  go  to  look  for  me  perhaps,  but  he  would  not 
notice  your  absence.' 

c  Madame,  if  you  bid  me  go,  I  will  go,'  said  Hélène, 
*  but  I  shall  lose  my  father's  good  opinion  ' 

(  What  is  this  !  '  cried  the  Marquise  in  a  sarcastic 
tone.  '  But  since  you  take  a  thing  that  was  said  in 
joke  in  earnest,  I  now  order  you  to  go  upstairs  and  see 
who  it  is  in  the  room  above.  Here  is  the  key,  child. 
When  your  father  told  you  to  say  nothing  about  this 
thing  that  happened,  he  did  not  forbid  you  to  go  up  to 
the  room.  Go  at  once — and  learn  that  a  daughter  ought 
never  to  judge  her  mother.' 

The  last  words  were  spoken  with  all  the  severity  of  a 
justly  offended  mother.  The  Marquise  took  the  key 
and  handed  it  to  Hélène,  who  rose  without  a  word  and 
left  the  room. 

4  My  mother  can  always  easily  obtain  her  pardon,' 
thought  the  girl  ;  6  but  as  for  me,  my  father  will  never 
think  the  same  of  me  again.  Does  she  mean  to  rob  me 
of  his  tenderness?  Does  she  want  to  turn  me  out  of 
his  house  ?  ' 

These  were  the  thoughts  that  set  her  imagination  in 
a  sudden  ferment,  as  she  went  down  the  dark  passage  to 
the  mysterious  door  at  the  end.  When  she  stood  before 
it,  her  mental  confusion  grew  to  a  fateful  pitch. 
Feelings  hitherto  forced  down  into  inner  depths  crowded 


I 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


*59 


up  at  the  summons  of  these  confused  thoughts. 
Perhaps  hitherto  she  had  never  believed  that  a  happy 
life  lay  before  her,  but  now,  in  this  awful  moment,  her 
despair  was  complete.  She  shook  convulsively  as  she 
set  the  key  in  the  lock  ;  so  great  indeed  was  her  agita- 
tion, that  she  stopped  for  a  moment  and  laid  her  hand  on 
her  heart,  as  if  to  still  the  heavy  throbs  that  sounded  in 
her  ears.    Then  she  opened  the  door. 

The  creaking  of  the  hinges  sounded  doubtless  in  vain 
on  the  murderer's  ears.  Acute  as  were  his  powers  of 
hearing,  he  stood  as  if  lost  in  thought,  and  so  motionless 
that  he  might  have  been  glued  to  the  wall  against 
which  he  leaned.  In  the  circle  of  semi-opaque  darkness, 
dimly  lit  by  the  bull's-eye  lantern,  he  looked  like  the 
shadowy  figure  of  some  dead  knight,  standing  for  ever  in 
his  shadowy  mortuary  niche  in  the  gloom  of  some 
Gothic  chapel.  Drops  of  cold  sweat  trickled  over  the 
broad,  sallow  forehead.  An  incredible  fearlessness 
looked  out  from  every  tense  feature.  His  eyes  of 
fire  were  fixed  and  tearless  ;  he  seemed  to  be  watching 
some  struggle  in  the  darkness  beyond  him.  Stormy 
thoughts  passed  swiftly  across  a  face  whose  firm  decision 
spoke  of  a  character  of  no  common  order.  His  whole 
person,  bearing,  and  frame  bore  out  the  impression  of  a 
tameless  spirit.  The  man  looked  power  and  strength 
personified  ;  he  stood  facing  the  darkness  as  if  it  were 
the  visible  image  of  his  own  future. 

These  physical  characteristics  had  made  no  impression 
upon  the  General,  familiar  as  he  was  with  the  powerful 
faces  of  the  group  of  giants  gathered  about  Napoleon  -9 
speculative  curiosity,  moreover,  as  to  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  the  apparition  had  completely  filled  his 
mind  ;  but  Hélène,  with  feminine  sensitiveness  to 
surface  impressions,  was  struck  by  the  blended  chaos  of 
light  and  darkness,  grandeur  and  passion,  suggesting  a 
likeness  between  this  stranger  and  Lucifer  recovering 
from  his  fall.    Suddenly  the  storm  apparent  in  his  face 


i6o  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

was  stilled  as  if  by  magic  ;  and  the  indefinable  power  to 
sway  which  the  stranger  exercised  upon  others,  and 
perhaps  unconsciously  and  as  by  reflex  action  upon  himself, 
spread  its  influence  about  him  with  the  progressive 
swiftness  of  a  flood.  A  torrent  of  thought  rolled  away 
from  his  brow  as  his  face  resumed  its  ordinary 
expression.  Perhaps  it  was  the  strangeness  of  this 
meeting,  or  perhaps  it  was  the  mystery  into  which  she 
had  penetrated,  that  held  the  young  girl  spellbound  in 
the  doorway,  so  that  she  could  look  at  a  face  pleasant  to 
behold  and  full  of  interest.  For  some  moments  she 
stood  in  the  magical  silence  ;  a  trouble  had  come  upon 
her  never  known  before  in  her  young  life.  Perhaps 
some  exclamation  broke  from  Hélène,  perhaps  she  moved 
unconsciously  ;  or  it  may  be  that  the  hunted  criminal 
returned  of  his  own  accord  from  the  world  of  ideas  to 
the  material  world,  and  heard  some  one  breathing  in  the 
room  ;  however  it  was,  he  turned  his  head  towards  his 
host's  daughter,  and  saw  dimly  in  the  shadow  a  noble 
face  and  queenly  form,  which  he  must  have  taken  for  an 
angel's,  so  motionless  she  stood,  so  vague  and  like  a 
spirit. 

*  Monsieur  .  .  . 9  a  trembling  voice  cried. 
The  murderer  trembled. 

CA  woman!'  he  cried  under  his  breath.  cIs  it 
possible  ?  Go,'  he  cried,  c  I  deny  that  any  one  has  a 
right  to  pity,  to  absolve,  or  condemn  me.  I  must  live 
alone.  Go,  my  child,'  he  added,  with  an  imperious 
gesture,  c  I  should  ill  requite  the  service  done  me  by  the 
master  of  the  house  if  I  were  to  allow  a  single  creature 
under  his  roof  to  breathe  the  same  air  with  me.  I  must 
submit  to  be  judged  by  the  laws  of  the  world.' 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  lower  voice.  Even 
as  he  realised  with  a  profound  intuition  all  the  manifold 
misery  awakened  by  that  melancholy  thought,  the 
glance  that  he  gave  Hélène  had  something  of  the  power 
of  the  serpent,  stirring  a  whole  dormant  world  in  the 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  161 

mind  of  the  strange  girl  before  him.  To  her  that 
glance  was  like  a  light  revealing  unknown  lands.  She 
was  stricken  with  strange  trouble,  helpless,  quelled  by 
a  magnetic  power  exerted  unconsciously.  Trembling 
and  ashamed,  she  went  out  and  returned  to  the  salon. 
She  had  scarcely  entered  the  room  before  her  father 
came  back,  so  that  she  had  not  time  to  say  a  word  to  her 
mother. 

The  General  was  wholly  absorbed  in  thought.  He 
folded  his  arms,  and  paced  silently  to  and  fro  between 
the  windows  which  looked  out  upon  the  street  and  the 
second  row  which  gave  upon  the  garden.  His  wife  held 
the  sleeping  Abel  on  her  knee,  and  little  Moina  lay  in 
untroubled  slumber  in  the  low  chair,  like  a  bird  in  its 
nest.  Her  older  sister  stared  into  the  fire,  a  skein  of 
silk  in  one  hand,  a  needle  in  the  other. 

Deep  silence  prevailed,  broken  only  by  lagging 
footsteps  on  the  stairs,  as  one  by  one  the  servants  crept 
away  to  bed  ;  there  was  an  occasional  burst  of  stifled 
laughter,  a  last  echo  of  the  wedding  festivity,  or  doors 
were  opened  as  they  still  talked  among  themselves,  then 
shut.  A  smothered  sound  came  now  and  again  from 
the  bedrooms,  a  chair  fell,  the  old  coachman  coughed 
feebly,  then  all  was  silent. 

In  a  little  while  the  dark  majesty  with  which  sleeping 
earth  is  invested  at  midnight  brought  all  things  under  its 
sway.  No  lights  shone  but  the  light  of  the  stars.  The 
frost  gripped  the  ground.  There  was  not  a  sound  of  a 
voice,  nor  a  living  creature  stirring.  The  crackling  of 
the  fire  only  seemed  to  make  the  depth  of  the  silence 
more  fully  felt. 

The  church  clock  of  Montreuil  had  just  struck  one, 
when  an  almost  inaudible  sound  of  a  light  footstep  came 
from  the  second  flight  of  stairs.  The  Marquis  and  his 
daughter,  both  believing  that  M.  de  Mauny's  murderer 
was  a  prisoner  above,  thought  that  one  of  the  maids  had 
come  down,  and  no  one  was  at  all  surprised  to  hear  the 

L 


1 62  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

door  open  in  the  ante-chamber.  Quite  suddenly  the 
murderer  appeared  in  their  midst.  The  Marquis  himself 
was  sunk  in  deep  musings,  the  mother  and  daughter 
were  silent,  the  one  from  keen  curiosity,  the  other  from 
sheer  astonishment,  so  that  the  visitor  was  almost  half- 
way across  the  room  when  he  spoke  to  the  General. 

'Sir,  the  two  hours  are  almost  over,'  he  said,  in  a 
voice  that  was  strangely  calm  and  musical. 

6  You  here  !  9  cried  the  General.   '  By  what  means  ? 9 

and  he  gave  wife  and  daughter  a  formidable  questioning 
glance.    Hélène  grew  red  as  fire. 

c  You  ! 9  he  went  on,  in  a  tone  filled  with  horror. 
c  Ton  among  us  !  A  murderer  covered  with  blood  ! 
You  are  a  blot  on  this  picture  !  Go,  go  out  ! 9  he 
added  in  a  burst  of  rage. 

At  that  word  c  murderer,'  the  Marquise  cried  out  ;  as 
for  Hélène,  it  seemed  to  mark  an  epoch  in  her  life,  there 
was  not  a  trace  of  surprise  in  her  face.  She  looked  as  if 
she  had  been  waiting  for  this — for  him.  Those  so  vast 
thoughts  of  hers  had  found  a  meaning.  The  punishment 
reserved  by  Heaven  for  her  sins  flamed  out  before  her. 
In  her  own  eyes  she  was  as  great  a  criminal  as  this 
murderer  ;  she  confronted  him  with  her  quiet  gaze  ;  she 
was  his  fellow,  his  sister.  It  seemed  to  her  that  in  this 
accident  the  command  of  God  had  been  made  manifest. 
If  she  had  been  a  few  years  older,  reason  would  have  dis- 
posed of  her  remorse,  but  at  this  moment  she  was  like 
one  distraught. 

The  stranger  stood  impassive  and  self-possessed  ;  a 
scornful  smile  overspread  his  features  and  his  thick,  red 
lips. 

4  You  appreciate  the  magnanimity  of  my  behaviour 
very  badly,'  he  said  slowly.  4 1  would  not  touch  with 
my  fingers  the  glass  of  water  you  brought  me  to  allay 
my  thirst  ;  I  did  not  so  much  as  think  of  washing  my 
blood-stained  hands  under  your  roof;  I  am  going  away, 
leaving  nothing  of  my  crime*  (here  his  lips  were  com- 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  163 

pressed)  *  but  the  memory;  I  have  tried  to  feave  no  trace 
of  my  presence  in  this  house.    Indeed,  I  would  not  even 

allow  your  daughter  to  * 

c  My  daughter  !  '  cried  the  General,  with  a  horror- 
stricken  glance  at  Hélène.  c  Vile  wretch,  go,  or  I  will 
kill  you  ' 

*  The  two  hours  are  not  yet  over,'  said  the  other  ;  c  if 
you  kill  me  or  give  me  up,  you  must  lower  yourself  in 
your  own  eyes — and  in  mine.' 

At  these  last  words,  the  General  turned  to  stare  at  the 
criminal  in  dumb  amazement  ;  but  he  could  not  endure 
the  intolerable  light  in  those  eyes  which  for  the  second 
time  disorganised  his  being.  He  was  afraid  of  showing 
weakness  once  more,  conscious  as  he  was  that  his  will 
was  weaker  already. 

c  An  old  man  !  You  can  never  have  seen  a  family,' 
he  said,  with  a  father's  glance  at  his  wife  and  children. 

'Yes,  an  old  man,'  echoed  the  stranger,  frowning 
slightly. 

c  Fly  !  '  cried  the  General,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  look 
at  his  guest.  4  Our  compact  is  broken.  I  shall  not  kill 
you.  No  !  I  will  never  be  purveyor  to  the  scaffold. 
But  go  out.    You  make  us  shudder.' 

4 1  know  that,'  said  the  other  patiently.  c  There  is 
not  a  spot  on  French  soil  where  I  can  set  foot  and  be 
safe  ;  but  if  man's  justice,  like  God's,  took  all  into 
account,  if  man's  justice  deigned  to  inquire  which  was 
the  monster — the  murderer  or  his  victim — then  I  might 
hold  up  my  head  among  my  fellows.  Can  you  not  guess 
that  other  crimes  preceded  that  blow  from  an  axe  ?  I 
constituted  myself  his  judge  and  executioner  ;  I  stepped 
in  where  man's  justice  failed.  That  was  my  crime. 
Farewell,  sir.  Bitter  though  you  have  made  your 
hospitality,  I  shall  not  forget  it.  I  shall  always  bear 
in  my  heart  a  feeling  of  gratitude  towards  one  man 
in  the  world,  and  you  are  that  man.  ...  But  I  could 
wish  that  you  had  showed  yourself  more  generous  !  ' 


1 64 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


He  turned  towards  the  door,  but  in  the  same  instant 
Hélène  leaned  to  whisper  something  in  her  mother's  ear. 
1  Ah  !  .  .  .' 

At  the  cry  that  broke  from  his  wife,  the  General 
trembled  as  if  he  had  seen  Moïna  lying  dead.  There 
stood  Hélène,  and  the  murderer  had  turned  instinctively, 
with  something  like  anxiety  about  these  folk  in  his  face. 

c  What  is  it,  dear  ?  '  asked  the  General. 

c  Hélène  wants  to  go  with  him.' 

The  murderer's  face  flushed. 

c  If  that  is  how  my  mother  understands  an  almost 
involuntary  exclamation,'  Hélène  said  in  a  low  voice,  c  I 
will  fulfil  her  wishes.'  She  glanced  about  her  with 
something  like  fierce  pride  ;  then  the  girl's  eyes  fell, 
and  she  stood,  admirable  in  her  modesty. 

c  Hélène,  did  you  go  up  to  the  room  where  ?  ' 

c  Yes,  father.' 

\  Hélène'  (and  his  voice  shook  with  a  convulsive  tremor), 
1  is  this  the  first  time  that  you  have  seen  this  man  ?  ' 
c  Yes,  father.' 

f  Then  it  is  not  natural  that  you  should  intend  to  ' 

*  If  it  is  not  natural,  father,  at  any  rate  it  is  true.' 
4  Oh  !  child,'  said  the  Marquise,  lowering  her  voice, 
but  not  so  much  but  that  her  husband  could  hear  her, 
c  you  are  false  to  all  the  principles  of  honour,  modesty, 
and  right  which  I  have  tried  to  cultivate  in  your  heart. 
If  until  this  fatal  hour  your  life  has  only  been  one  lie, 
there  is  nothing  to  regret  in  your  loss.  It  can  hardly 
be  the  moral  perfection  of  this  stranger  that  attracts 
you  to  him  ?  Can  it  be  the  kind  of  power  that  commits 
crime  ?  I  have  too  good  an  opinion  of  you  to  suppose 
that  P 

i  Oh,  suppose  everything,  madame,'  Hélène  said  coldly. 

But  though  her  force  of  character  sustained  this  ordeal, 
her  flashing  eyes  could  scarcely  hold  the  tears  that  filled 
them.  The  stranger,  watching  her,  guessed  the  mother's 
language  from  the  girl's  tears,  and  turned  his  eagle  glance 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


i65 


upon  the  Marquise.  An  irresistible  power  constrained 
her  to  look  at  this  terrible  seducer  ;  but  as  her  eyes  met 
his  bright,  glittering  gaze,  she  felt  a  shiver  run  through 
her  frame,  such  a  shock  as  we  feel  at  the  sight  of  a 
reptile  or  the  contact  of  a  Leyden  jar. 

c  Dear  ! 9  she  cried,  turning  to  her  husband,  4  this  is 
the  Fiend  himself  !    He  can  divine  everything  !  ! 

The  General  rose  to  his  feet  and  went  to  the  bell. 

*  He  means  ruin  for  you,'  Hélène  said  to  the  murderer. 

The  stranger  smiled,  took  one  forward  stride,  grasped 
the  General's  arm,  and  compelled  him  to  endure  a 
steady  gaze  which  benumbed  the  soldier's  brain  and  left 
him  powerless. 

*I  will  repay  you  now  for  your  hospitality,'  he  said, 
'  and  then  we  shall  be  quits.  I  will  spare  you  the  shame 
by  giving  myself  up.  After  all,  what  should  I  do  now 
with  my  life  ? 9 

c  You  could  repent,'  answered  Hélène,  and  her  glance 
conveyed  such  hope  as  only  glows  in  a  young  girl's  eyes. 

i  I  shall  never  repent said  the  murderer  in  a  sonorous 
voice,  as  he  raised  his  head  proudly. 

4  His  hands  are  stained  with  blood,'  the  father  said. 

4 1  will  wipe  it  away,'  she  answered. 

c  But  do  you  so  much  as  know  whether  he  cares  for 
you  ?  '  said  her  father,  not  daring  now  to  look  at  the 
stranger. 

The  murderer  came  up  a  little  nearer.  Some  light 
within  seemed  to  glow  through  Hélène's  beauty,  grave 
and  maidenly  though  it  was,  colouring  and  bringing  into 
relief,  as  it  were,  the  least  details,  the  most  delicate  lines 
in  her  face.  The  stranger,  with  that  terrible  fire  still 
blazing  in  his  eyes,  gave  one  tender  glance  to  her  en- 
chanting loveliness,  then  he  spoke,  his  tones  revealing 
how  deeply  he  had  been  moved. 

c  And  if  I  refuse  to  allow  this  sacrifice  of  yourself,  and 
so  discharge  my  debt  of  two  hours  of  existence  to  your 
father  ;  is  not  this  love,  love  for  yourself  alone  ?  ' 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


*Then  do  you  too  reject  me?'  Hélène's  cry  rang 
painfully  through  the  hearts  of  all  who  heard  her. 
'  Farewell,  then,  to  you  all  ;  I  will  die.' 

*  What  does  this  mean  ?  '  asked  the  father  and  mother. 
Hélène  gave  her  mother  an  eloquent  glance  and 

lowered  her  eyes. 

Since  the  first  attempt  made  by  the  General  and  his 
wife  to  contest  by  word  or  action  the  intruder's  strange 
presumption  to  the  right  of  staying  in  their  midst,  from 
their  first  experience  of  the  power  of  those  glittering 
eyes,  a  mysterious  torpor  had  crept  over  them,  and  their 
benumbed  faculties  struggled  in  vain  with  a  preternatural 
influence.  The  air  seemed  to  have  suddenly  grown  so 
heavy,  that  they  could  scarcely  breathe  ;  yet,  while  they 
could  not  find  the  reason  of  this  feeling  of  oppression, 
a  voice  within  told  them  that  this  magnetic  presence 
was  the  real  cause  of  their  helplessness.  In  this  moral 
agony,  it  flashed  across  the  General  that  he  must  make 
every  effort  to  overcome  this  influence  on  his  daughter's 
reeling  brain  ;  he  caught  her  by  the  waist  and  drew  her 
into  the  embrasure  of  a  window,  as  far  as  possible  from 
the'murderer. 

*  Darling,'  he  murmured,  c  if  some  wild  love  has  been 
suddenly  born  in  your  heart,  I  cannot  believe  that  you 
have  not  the  strength  of  soul  to  quell  the  mad  impulse  ; 
your  innocent  life,  your  pure  and  dutiful  soul,  has  given 
me  too  many  proofs  of  your  character.  There  must  be 
something  behind  all  this.  Well,  this  heart  of  mine  is 
full  of  indulgence,  you  can  tell  everything  to  me  ;  even 
if  it  breaks,  dear  child,  I  can  be  silent  about  my  grief, 
and  keep  your  confession  a  secret.  What  is  it  ?  Are  you 
jealous  of  our  love  for  your  brothers  or  your  little  sister  ? 
Is  it  some  love  trouble  ?  Are  you  unhappy  here  at  home  ? 
Tell  me  about  it,  tell  me  the  reasons  that  urge  you 
to  leave  your  home,  to  rob  it  of  its  greatest  charm, 
to  leave  your  mother  and  brothers  and  your  little 
sister  ?  ' 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


167 


CI  am  in  love  with  no  one,  father,  and  jealous  of  no 
one,  not  even  of  your  friend  the  diplomatist,  M.  de 
Vandenesse.' 

The  Marquise  turned  pale  ;  her  daughter  saw  this,  and 
stopped  short. 

4  Sooner  or  later  I  must  live  under  some  man's  protec- 
tion, must  I  not  ? 9 

c  That  is  true.' 

c  Do  we  ever  know,'  she  went  on,  c  the  human  being 
to  whom  we  link  our  destinies  ?  Now,  I  believe  in  this 
man.' 

c  Oh,  child,'  said  the  General,  raising  his  voice,  c  you 
have  no  idea  of  all  the  misery  that  lies  in  store  for 
you.' 

*  I  am  thinking  of  his.9 

c  What  a  life  !  '  groaned  the  father. 
c  A  woman's  life,'  the  girl  murmured. 

*  You  have  a  great  knowledge  of  life  !  '  exclaimed  the 
Marquise,  finding  speech  at  last. 

1  Madame,  my  answers  are  shaped  by  the  questions  ; 
but  if  you  desire  it,  I  will  speak  more  clearly.' 

?  Speak  out,  my  child  ...  I  am  a  mother.' 

Mother  and  daughter  looked  each  other  in  the 
face,  and  the  Marquise  said  no  more.  At  last  she 
said — 

*  Hélène,  if  you  have  any  reproaches  to  make,  I  would 
rather  bear  them  than  see  you  go  away  with  a  man  from 
whom  the  whole  world  shrinks  in  horror.' 

c  Then  you  see  yourself,  madame,  that  but  for  me  he 
would  be  quite  alone.' 

c  That  will  do,  madame,'  the  General  cried  ;  i  we  have 
but  one  daughter  left  to  us  now,'  and  he  looked  at  Moïna, 
who  slept  on.  c  As  for  you,'  he  added,  turning  to 
Hélène,  c  I  will  put  you  in  a  convent.' 

4  So  be  it,  father,'  she  said,  in  calm  despair,  c  I  shall  die 
there.  You  are  answerable  to  God  alone  for  my  life 
and  for  his  soul.' 


i68 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


A  deep,  sudden  silence  fell  after  those  words.  The 
onlookers  during  this  strange  scene,  so  utterly  at  variance 
with  all  the  sentiments  of  ordinary  life,  shunned  each 
other's  eyes. 

Suddenly  the  Marquis  happened  to  glance  at  his 
pistols.  He  caught  up  one  of  them,  cocked  the  weapon, 
and  pointed  it  at  the  intruder.  At  the  click  of  firearms 
the  other  turned  his  piercing  gaze  full  upon  the  General  ; 
the  soldier's  arm  slackened  indescribably  and  fell  heavily 
to  his  side.    The  pistol  dropped  to  the  floor. 

5  Girl,  you  are  free,'  said  he,  exhausted  by  this  ghastly 
struggle.  'Kiss  your  mother,  if  she  will  let  you  kiss 
her.  For  my  own  part,  I  wish  never  to  see  nor  to  hear 
of  you  again.' 

c  Hélène,'  the  mother  began,  c  only  think  of  the 
wretched  life  before  you.' 

A  sort  of  rattling  sound  came  from  the  intruder's 
deep  chest,  all  eyes  turned  to  him.  Disdain  was  plainly 
visible  in  his  face. 

The  General  rose  to  his  feet.  c  My  hospitality  has 
cost  me  dear,'  he  cried.  4  Before  you  came  you  had 
taken  an  old  man's  life  $  now  you  are  dealing  a  deadly 
blow  at  a  whole  family.  Whatever  happens,  there  must 
be  unhappiness  in  this  house.' 

i  And  if  your  daughter  is  happy  ?  '  asked  the  other, 
gazing  steadily  at  the  General. 

The  father  made  a  superhuman  effort  for  self-control. 
c  If  she  is  happy  with  you,'  he  said,  c  she  is  not  worth 
regretting.' 

Hélène  knelt  timidly  before  her  father. 

c  Father,  I  love  and  revere  you,'  she  said,  c  whether 
you  lavish  all  the  treasures  of  your  kindness  upon  me,  or 
make  me  feel  to  the  full  the  rigour  of  disgrace.  .  .  . 
But  I  entreat  that  your  last  words  of  farewell  shall  not 
be  words  of  anger.' 

The  General  could  not  trust  himself  to  look  at 
her.    The  stranger  came    nearer  ;  there  was  some- 

# 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  169 

thing  half-diabolical,  half-divine  in  the  smile  that  he 
gave  Hélène. 

4  Angel  of  pity,  you  that  do  not  shrink  in  horror  from 
a  murderer,  come,  since  you  persist  in  your  resolution  of 
intrusting  your  life  to  me.' 

i  Inconceivable  ! 9  cried  her  father. 

The  Marquise  looked  strangely  at  her  daughter, 
opened  her  arms,  and  Hélène  fled  to  her  in  tears. 

1  Farewell,'  she  said,  c  farewell,  mother  !  '  The 
stranger  trembled  as  Hélène,  undaunted,  made  sign  to 
him  that  she  was  ready.  She  kissed  her  father's  hand  ; 
and,  as  if  performing  a  duty,  gave  a  hasty  kiss  to  Moïna 
and  little  Abel,  then  she  vanished  with  the  murderer. 

4  Which  way  are  they  going  ?  '  exclaimed  the  General, 
listening  to  the  footsteps  of  the  two  fugitives. — 
*  Madame,'  he  turned  to  his  wife,  6 1  think  I  must  be 
dreaming  ;  there  is  some  mystery  behind  all  this,  I  do 
not  understand  it  ;  you  must  know  what  it  means.' 

The  Marquise  shivered. 

'  For  some  time  past  your  daughter  has  grown  extra- 
ordinarily romantic  and  strangely  high-flown  in  her  ideas. 
In  spite  of  the  pains  I  have  taken  to  combat  these 
tendencies  in  her  character  ' 

i  This  will  not  do  9  began  the  General,  but  fancy- 
ing that  he  heard  footsteps  in  the  garden,  he  broke  off  to 
fling  open  the  window. 

c  Hélène  !  '  he  shouted. 

His  voice  was  lost  in  tne  darkness  like  a  vain 
prophecy.  The  utterance  of  that  name,  to  which  there 
should  never  be  answer  any  more,  acted  like  a  counter- 
spell  ;  it  broke  the  charm  and  set  him  free  from  the  evil 
enchantment  which  lay  upon  him.  It  was  as  if  some 
spirit  passed  over  his  face.  He  now  saw  clearly  what 
had  taken  place,  and  cursed  his  incomprehensible  weak- 
ness. A  shiver  of  heat  rushed  from  his  heart  to  his 
head  and  feet  ;  he  became  himself  once  more,  terrible, 
thirsting  for  revenge.    He  raised  a  dreadful  cry. 

% 


170 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


c  Help  ! 1  he  thundered,  <  help  !  ! 

He  rushed  to  the  bell-pull,  pulled  till  the  bells  rang 
with  a  strange  clamour  of  din,  pulled  till  the  cord  gave 
way.  The  whole  house  was  roused  with  a  start.  Still 
shouting,  he  flung  open  the  windows  that  looked  upon 
the  street,  called  for  the  police,  caught  up  his  pistols,  and 
fired  them  off  to  hurry  the  mounted  patrols,  the  newly 
aroused  servants,  and  the  neighbours.  The  dogs  barked 
at  the  sound  of  their  master's  voice  ;  the  horses  neighed 
and  stamped  in  their  stalls.  The  quiet  night  was 
suddenly  filled  with  hideous  uproar.  The  General  on 
the  staircase,  in  pursuit  of  his  daughter,  saw  the  scared 
faces  of  the  servants  flocking  from  all  parts  of  the  house. 

f  My  daughter  !  ?  he  shouted.  c  Hélène  has  been  carried 
off".  Search  the  garden  !  Keep  a  lookout  on  the  road  ! 
Open  the  gates  for  the  gendarmerie  !— Murder  !  Help!' 

With  the  strength  of  fury  he  snapped  the  chain  and 
let  loose  the  great  house-dog. 

c  Hélène  ! 9  he  cried,  c  Hélène  !  ' 

The  dog  sprang  out  like  a  lion,  barking  furiously,  and 
dashed  into  the  garden,  leaving  the  General  far 
behind.  A  troop  of  horses  came  along  the  road  at  a 
gallop,  and  he  flew  to  open  the  gates  himself. 

*  Corporal  !  '  he  shouted,  c  cut  off  the  retreat  of  M. 
de  Mauny's  murderer.  They  have  gone  through  my 
garden.  Quick  !  Put  a  cordon  of  men  to  watch  the 
ways  by  the  Butte  de  Picardie. — I  will  beat  up  the 
grounds,  parks,  and  houses. — The  rest  of  you  keep  a 
lookout  along  the  road,'  he  ordered  the  servants,  i  form 
a  chain  between  the  barrier  and  Versailles.  Forward, 
every  man  of  you  !  ' 

He  caught  up  the  rifle  which  his  man  had  brought 
out,  and  dashed  into  the  garden. 

*  Find  them  !  '  he  called  to  the  dog. 
An  ominous  baying  came  in  answer  from  the  distance, 

and  he  plunged  in  the  direction  from  which  the  growl 
seemed  to  come. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


171 


It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  ;  all  the  search 
made  by  gendarmes,  servants,  and  neighbours  had  been 
fruitless,  and  the  dog  had  not  come  back.  The  General 
entered  the  salon,  empty  now  for  him  though  the  other 
three  children  were  there  ;  he  was  worn  out  with 
fatigue,  and  looked  old  already  with  that  night's 
worko 

c  You  have  been  very  cold  to  your  daughter,5  he  said, 
turning  his  eyes  on  his  wife. — c  And  now  this  is  all  that 
is  lell  to  us  of  her,'  he  added,  indicating  the  embroidery 
frame,  and  the  flower  just  begun.  c  Only  just  now  she 
was  there,  and  now  she  is  lost  .  .  .  lost  !  ' 

Tears  followed  ;  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  for  a 
few  minutes  he  said  no  more  ;  he  could  not  bear  the 
sight  of  the  room,  which  so  short  a  time  ago  had  made 
a  setting  to  a  picture  of  the  sweetest  family  happiness. 
The  winter  dawn  was  struggling  with  the  dying  lamp- 
light ;  the  tapers  burned  down  to  their  paper-wreaths 
and  flared  out  ->  everything  was  all  in  keeping  with  the 
father's  despair. 

*  This  must  be  destroyed,'  he  said  after  a  pause,  point- 
ing to  the  tambour-frame.  c  I  shall  never  bear  to  see 
anything  again  that  reminds  us  of  her  !  ' 

The  terrible  Christmas  night  when  the  Marquis  and 
his  wife  lost  their  oldest  daughter,  powerless  to  oppose  the 
mysterious  influence  exercised  by  the  man  who  involun- 
tarily, as  it  were,  stole  Hélène  from  them,  was  like  a 
warning  sent  by  Fate.  The  Marquis  was  ruined  by  the 
failure  of  his  stockbroker  ;  he  borrowed  money  on  his 
wife's  property,  and  lost  it  in  the  endeavour  to  retrieve 
his  fortunes.  Driven  to  desperate  expedients,  he  left 
France.  Six  years  went  by.  His  family  seldom  had 
news  of  him  ;  but  a  few  days  before  Spain  recognised  the 
independence  of  the  American  Republics,  he  wrote  that 
he  was  coming  home. 

So,  one  fine  morning,  it  happened  that  several  French 
merchants  were  on  board  a  Spanish  brig  that  lay  a  few 


172 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


leagues  out  from  Bordeaux,  impatient  to  reach  their 
native  land  again,  with  wealth  acquired  by  long  years 
of  toil  and  perilous  adventures  in  Venezuela  and 
Mexico. 

One  of  the  passengers,  a  man  who  looked  aged  by 
trouble  rather  than  by  years,  was  leaning  against  the 
bulwark  netting,  apparently  quite  unaffected  by  the 
sight  to  be  seen  from  the  upper  deck.  The  bright  day, 
the  sense  that  the  voyage  was  safely  over,  had  brought  all 
the  passengers  above  to  greet  their  land.  The  larger 
number  of  them  insisted  that  they  could  see,  far  off  in 
the  distance,  the  houses  and  lighthouses  on  the  coast  of 
Gascony  and  the  Tower  of  Cordouan,  melting  into  the 
fantastic  erections  of  white  cloud  along  the  horizon. 
But  for  the  silver  fringe  that  played  about  their  bows, 
and  the  long  furrow  swiftly  effaced  in  their  wake,  they 
might  have  been  perfectly  still  in  mid-ocean,  so  calm  was 
the  sea.  The  sky  was  magically  clear,  the  dark  blue  of 
the  vault  above  paled  by  imperceptible  gradations,  until 
it  blended  with  the  bluish  water,  a  gleaming  line  that 
sparkled  like  stars  marking  the  dividing  line  of  sea. 
The  sunlight  caught  myriads  of  facets  over  the  wide  sur- 
face of  the  ocean,  in  such  a  sort  that  the  vast  plains  of 
salt  water  looked  perhaps  more  full  of  light  than  the  fields 
of  sky. 

The  brig  had  set  all  her  canvas.  The  snowy  sails, 
swelled  by  the  strangely  soft  wind,  the  labyrinth  of 
cordage,  and  the  yellow  flags  flying  at  the  masthead,  all 
stood  out  sharp  and  uncompromisingly  clear  against  the 
vivid  background  of  space,  sky,  and  sea  ;  there  was 
nothing  to  alter  the  colour  but  the  shadow  cast  by  the 
great  cloudlike  sails. 

A  glorious  day,  a  fair  wind,  and  the  fatherland  in 
sight,  a  sea  like  a  mill  pond,  the  melancholy  sound  of  the 
ripples,  a  fair  solitary  vessel,  gliding  across  the  surface  of 
the  water  like  a  woman  stealing  out  to  a  tryst — it  was  a 
picture  full  of  harmony.   That  mere  speck  full  of  move- 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


173 


ment  was  a  starting-point  whence  the  soul  of  man 
could  descry  the  immutable  vast  of  space.  Solitude  and 
bustling  life,  silence  and  sound,  were  all  brought  together 
in  strange  abrupt  contrast  ;  you  could  not  tell  where  life, 
or  sound,  or  silence,  and  nothingness  lay,  and  no  human 
voice  broke  the  divine  spell. 

The  Spanish  captain,  the  crew,  and  the  French  pas- 
sengers sat  or  stood,  in  a  mood  of  devout  ecstasy,  in 
which  many  memories  blended.  There  was  idleness  in 
the  air.  The  beaming  faces  told  of  complete  forgetful- 
neôs  of  past  hardships,  the  men  were  rocked  on  the  fair 
vessel  as  in  a  golden  dream.  Yet,  from  time  to  time  the 
elderly  passenger,  leaning  over  the  bulwark  nettings, 
looked  with  something  like  uneasiness  at  the  horizon. 
Distrust  of  the  ways  of  Fate  could  be  read  in  his  whole 
face;  he  seemed  to  fear  that  he  should  not  reach  the 
coast  of  France  in  time.  This  was  the  Marquis.  For- 
tune had  not  been  deaf  to  his  despairing  cry  and  struggles. 
After  five  years  of  endeavour  and  painful  toil,  he  was  a 
wealthy  man  once  more.  In  his  impatience  to  reach  his 
home  again  and  to  bring  the  good  news  to  his  family,  he 
had  followed  the  example  set  by  some  French  merchants 
in  Havannah,  and  embarked  with  them  on  a  Spanish 
vessel  with  a  cargo  for  Bordeaux.  And  now,  grown 
tired  of  evil  forebodings,  his  fancy  was  tracing  out  for 
him  the  most  delicious  pictures  of  past  happiness.  In 
that  far-off  brown  line  of  land  he  seemed  to  see  his  wife 
and  children.  He  sat  in  his  place  by  the  fireside  ;  they 
were  crowding  about  him  ;  he  felt  their  caresses.  Moïna 
had  grown  to  be  a  young  girl  ;  she  was  beautiful,  and 
tall,  and  striking.  The  fended  picture  had  grown 
almost  real,  when  the  tears  filled  his  eyes,  and,  to  hide 
his  emotion,  he  turned  his  face  towards  the  sea-line, 
opposite  the  hazy  streak  that  meant  land. 

c  There  she  is  again.  .  .  .  She  is  following  us  !  '  he 
said. 

*  What  ?  '  cried  the  Spanish  captain. 


174 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


i  There  is  a  vessel/  muttered  the  General, 

CI  saw  her  yesterday/  answered  Captain  Gomez.  He 

looked  at  his  interlocutor  as  if  to  ask  what  he  thought  ; 

then  he  added,  in  the  General's  ear,  c  She  has  been  chas- 
ing us  all  along.' 

c  Then  why  she  has  not  come  up  with  us,  I  do  not 

know,'  said  the  General,  c  for  she  is  a  faster  sailer  than 

your  damned  Saint- Ferdinand* 

'  She  will  have  damaged  herself,  sprung  a  leak-  * 

c  She  is  gaining  on  us  !  '  the  General  broke  in. 

4  She  is  a  Colombian  privateer,'  the  captain  said  in  his 

ear, 6  and  we  are  still  six  leagues  from  land,  and  the  wind 

is  dropping.' 

c  She  is  not  going  ahead,  she  is  flying,  as  if  she  knew 
that  in  two  hours'  time  her  prey  would  escape  her. 
What  audacity  !  ' 

4  Audacity!'  cried  the  captain.  i  Oh  !  she  is  not 
called  the  Othello  for  nothing.  Not  so  long  back  she 
sank  a  Spanish  frigate  that  carried  thirty  guns  !  This  is 
the  one  thing  I  was  afraid  of,  for  I  had  a  notion  that 
she  was  cruising  about  somewhere  oflf  the  Antilles. — Aha  !  ' 
he  added  after  a  pause,  as  he  watched  the  sails  of  his  own 
vessel,  c  the  wind  is  rising  ;  we  are  making  away.  Get 
through  we  must,  for  "  the  Parisian  "  will  show  us  no 
mercy.' 

c  She  is  making  way  too  !  '  returned  the  General. 

The  Othello  was  scarce  three  leagues  away  by  this 
time  ;  and  although  the  conversation  between  the  Mar- 
quis and  Captain  Gomez  had  taken  place  apart,  pas- 
sengers and  crew,  attracted  by  the  sudden  appearance  of 
a  sail,  came  to  that  side  of  the  vessel.  With  scarcely 
an  exception,  however,  they  took  the  privateer  for  a 
merchantman,  and  watched  her  course  with  interest, 
till  all  at  once  a  sailor  shouted  with  some  energy  of 
language — 

4  By  Saint  James,  it  is  all  up  with  us  !  Yonder  is  the 
Parisian  captain  !  ' 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


"75 


At  that  terrible  name  dismay,  and  a  panic  impossible 
to  describe,  spread  through  the  brig.  The  Spanish  cap- 
tain's orders  put  energy  into  the  crew  for  a  while  ;  and  in 
his  resolute  determination  to  make  land  at  all  costs,  he 
set  all  the  studding  sails,  and  crowded  on  every  stitch  of 
canvas  on  board.  But  all  this  was  not  the  work  of  a 
moment  ;  and  naturally  the  men  did  not  work  together 
with  that  wonderful  unanimity  so  fascinating  to  watch 
on  board  a  man-of-war.  The  Othello  meanwhile,  thanks 
to  the  trimming  of  her  sails,  flew  over  the  water  like  a 
swallow  ;  but  she  was  making,  to  all  appearance,  so  little 
headway,  that  the  unlucky  Frenchmen  began  to  entertain 
sweet  delusive  hopes.  At  last,  after  unheard-of  efforts, 
the  Saint- Ferdinand  sprang  forward,  Gomez  himself 
directing  the  shifting  of  the  sheets  with  voice  and  ges- 
ture, when  all  at  once  the  man  at  the  tiller,  steering 
at  random  (purposely,  no  doubt),  swung  the  vessel 
round.  The  wind  striking  athwart  the  beam,  the  sails 
shivered  so  unexpectedly  that  the  brig  heeled  to  one  side, 
the  booms  were  carried  away,  and  the  vessel  was  com- 
pletely out  of  hand.  The  captain's  face  grew  whiter 
than  his  sails  with  unutterable  rage.  He  sprang  upon 
the  man  at  the  tiller,  drove  his  dagger  at  him  in 
such  blind  fury,  that  he  missed  him,  and  hurled  the 
weapon  overboard.  Gomez  took  the  helm  himself,  and 
strove  to  right  the  gallant  vessel.  Tears  of  despair  rose 
to  his  eyes,  for  it  is  harder  to  lose  the  result  of  our  care- 
fully-laid plans  through  treachery  than  to  face  imminent 
death.  But  the  more  the  captain  swore,  the  less  the  men 
worked,  and  it  was  he  himself  who  fired  the  alarm-gun, 
hoping  to  be  heard  on  shore.  The  privateer,  now 
gaining  hopelessly  upon  them,  replied  with  a  cannon- 
shot,  which  struck  the  water  ten  fathoms  away  from  the 
Sain  t-  Ferdinand. 

i  Thunder  of  heaven  !  '  cried  the  General,  c  that  was  a 
close  shave  !    They  must  have  guns  made  on  purpose.' 

*  Oh  !  when  that  one  yonder  speaks,  look  you,  you 


176 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


have  to  hold  your  tongue,'  said  a  sailor.  4  The  Parisian 
would  not  be  afraid  to  meet  an  English  man-of-war.' 

4  It  is  all  over  with  us,'  the  captain  cried  in  despera- 
tion ;  he  had  pointed  his  telescope  landwards,  and  saw  not 
a  sign  from  the  shore.  *  We  are  further  from  the  coast 
than  I  thought.' 

c  Why  do  you  despair  ?  '  asked  the  General.  c  All 
your  passengers  are  Frenchmen  \  they  have  chartered 
your  vessel.  The  privateer  is  a  Parisian,  you  say  ? 
Well  and  good,  run  up  the  white  flag,  and  1 

c  And  he  would  run  us  down,'  retorted  the  captain. 
c  He  can  be  anything  he  likes  when  he  has  a  mind  to 
seize  on  a  rich  booty  ?  ' 

c  Oh  !  if  he  is  a  pirate  ' 

4  Pirate  !  '  said  the  ferocious  looking  sailor.  c  Oh  ! 
he  always  has  the  law  on  his  side,  or  he  knows  how  to 
be  on  the  same  side  as  the  law.' 

c  Very  well,'  said  the  General,  raising  his  eyes,  6  let  us 
make  up  our  minds  to  it,'  and  his  remaining  fortitude 
was  still  sufficient  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  before  a 
second  cannon-shot,  better  aimed,  came  crashing  through 
the  hull  of  the  Saint-Ferdinand. 

c  Heave  to  !  '  cried  the  captain  gloomily. 

The  sailor  who  had  commended  the  Parisian's  law- 
abiding  proclivities  showed  himself  a  clever  hand  at 
working  a  ship  after  this  desperate  order  was  given. 
The  crew  waited  for  half  an  hour  in  an  agony  of  suspense 
and  the  deepest  dismay.  The  Saint- Ferdinand  had  four 
millions  of  piastres  on  board,  the  whole  fortunes  of  the 
five  passengers,  and  the  General's  eleven  hundred 
thousand  francs.  At  length  the  Othello  lay  not  ten 
gunshots  away,  so  that  those  on  the  Saint- Ferdinand 
could  look  into  the  muzzles  of  her  loaded  guns.  The 
vessel  seemed  to  be  borne  along  by  a  breeze  sent  by  the 
Devil  himself,  but  the  eyes  of  an  expert  would  have  dis- 
covered the  secret  of  her  speed  at  once.   You  had  but  to 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


«77 


look  for  a  moment  at  the  rake  of  her  stern,  her  long, 
narrow  keel,  her  tall  masts,  to  see  the  cut  of  her  sails, 
the  wonderful  lightness  of  her  rigging,  and  the  ease  and 
perfect  seamanship  with  which  her  crew  trimmed  her 
sails  to  the  wind.  Everything  about  her  gave  the  im- 
pression of  the  security  of  power  in  this  delicately  curved 
inanimate  creature,  swift  and  intelligent  as  a  greyhound 
or  some  bird  of  prey.  The  privateer  crew  stood  silent, 
ready  in  case  of  resistance  to  shatter  the  wretched 
merchantman,  which,  luckily  for  her,  remained  motion- 
less, like  a  schoolboy  caught  in  flagrant  delict  by  a 
master. 

c  We  have  guns  on  board  !  '  cried  the  General, 
clutching  the  Spanish  captain's  hand.  But  the  courage 
in  Gomez's  eyes  was  the  courage  of  despair. 

4  Have  we  men  ?  '  he  said. 

The  Marquis  looked  round  at  the  crew  of  the  Saint- 
Ferdinand,  and  a  cold  chill  ran  through  him.  There 
stood  the  four  merchants,  pale  and  quaking  for  fear, 
while  the  crew  gathered  about  some  of  their  own  number 
who  appeared  to  be  arranging  to  go  over  in  a  body 
to  the  enemy.  They  watched  the  Othello  with  greed 
and  curiosity  in  their  faces.  The  captain,  the  Marquis, 
and  the  mate  exchanged  glances  ;  they  were  the  only 
three  who  had  a  thought  for  any  but  themselves. 

c  Ah  !  Captain  Gomez,  when  I  left  my  home  and 
country,  my  heart  was  half  dead  with  the  bitterness  of 
parting,  and  now  must  I  bid  it  good-bye  once  more  when 
I  am  bringing  back  happiness  and  ease  for  my  children  ?  ' 

The  General  turned  his  head  away  towards  the  sea 
with  tears  of  rage  in  his  eyes — and  saw  the  steersman 
swimming  out  to  the  privateer. 

'This  time  it  will  be  good-bye  for  good,'  said  the 
captain  by  way  of  answer,  and  the  dazed  look  in  the 
Frenchman's  eyes  startled  the  Spaniard. 

By  this  time  the  two  vessels  were  almost  alongside, 
and  at  the  first  sight  of  the  enemy's  crew  the  General 

M 


«7I 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


saw  that  Gomez's  gloomy  prophecy  was  only  too  true. 
The  three  men  at  each  gun  might  have  been  bronze 
statues,  standing  like  athletes,  with  their  rugged  features, 
their  bare,  sinewy  arms,  men  whom  Death  himself  had 
scarcely  thrown  off  their  feet. 

The  rest  of  the  crew,  well  armed,  active,  light,  and 
vigorous,  also  stood  motionless.  Toil  had  hardened, 
and  the  sun  had  deeply  tanned,  those  energetic  faces  $ 
their  eyes  glittered  like  sparks  of  fire  with  infernal 
glee  and  clear-sighted  courage.  Perfect  silence  on  the 
upper  deck,  now  black  with  men,  bore  abundant 
testimony  to  the  rigorous  discipline  and  strong  will 
which  held  these  fiends  incarnate  in  check. 

The  captain  of  the  Othello  stood  with  folded  arms  at 
the  foot  of  the  main  mast  ;  he  carried  no  weapons,  but  an 
axe  lay  on  the  deck  beside  him.  His  face  was  hidden  by 
the  shadow  of  a  broad,  felt  hat.  The  men  looked  like 
dogs  crouching  before  their  master.  Gunners,  soldiers, 
and  ship's  crew  turned  their  eyes  first  on  his  face,  and 
then  on  the  merchant  vessel. 

The  two  brigs  came  up  alongside,  and  the  shock  oï 
contact  roused  the  privateer  captain  from  his  musings  ; 
he  spoke  a  word  in  the  ear  of  the  lieutenant  who  stood 
beside  him. 

1  Grappling  irons  ! 1  shouted  the  latter,  and  the  Othello 
grappled  the  Saint- Ferdinand  with  miraculous  quickness. 
The  captain  of  the  privateer  gave  his  orders  in  a  low 
voice  to  the  lieutenant,  who  repeated  them  ;  the  men, 
told  off  in  succession  for  each  duty,  went  on  the  upper 
deck  of  the  Saint- Ferdinand^  like  seminarists  going  to 
mass.  They  bound  crew  and  passengers  hand  and  foot 
and  seized  the  booty.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
provisions  and  barrels  full  of  piastres  were  transferred  to 
the  Othello  ;  the  General  thought  that  he  must  be 
dreaming  when  he  himself,  likewise  bound,  was  flung 
down  on  a  bale  of  goods  as  if  he  had  been  part  of  the 
cargo. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


179 


A  brief  conference  took  place  between  the  captain  of 
the  privateer  and  his  lieutenant  and  a  sailor,  who  seemed 
to  be  the  mate  of  the  vessel  ;  then  the  mate  gave  a 
whistle,  and  the  men  jumped  on  board  the  Saint- 
Ferdinand^  and  completely  dismantled  her  with  the 
nimble  dexterity  of  a  soldier  who  strips  a  dead  comrade 
of  a  coveted  overcoat  and  shoes. 

c  It  is  all  over  with  us,'  said  the  Spanish  captain  coolly. 
He  had  eyed  the  three  chiefs  during  their  confabulation, 
and  saw  that  the  sailors  were  proceeding  to  pull  his 
vessel  to  pieces. 

c  Why  so  ?  '  asked  the  General. 

4  What  would  you  have  them  do  with  us  ? 9  returned 
the  Spaniard.  4  They  have  just  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  they  will  scarcely  sell  the  Saint- Ferdinand  in  any 
French  or  Spanish  port,  so  they  are  going  to  sink  her  to 
be  rid  of  her.  And  as  for  us,  do  you  suppose  that  they 
will  put  themselves  to  the  expense  of  feeding  us,  when 
they  don't  know  what  port  they  are  to  put  into  ?  ? 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  the  captain's  mouth 
before  a  hideous  outcry  went  up,  followed  by  a  dull  splash- 
ing sound,  as  several  bodies  were  thrown  overboard.  He 
turned,  the  four  merchants  were  no  longer  to  be  seen, 
but  eight  ferocious-looking  gunners  were  still  standing 
with  their  arms  raised  above  their  heads.    He  shuddered. 

4  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  '  the  Spanish  captain  asked 
coolly. 

The  Marquis  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  spring.  The 
surface  of  the  sea  was  quite  smooth  again  ;  he  could  not 
so  much  as  see  the  place  where  his  unhappy  fellow 
passengers  had  disappeared.  By  this  time  they  were 
sinking  down,  bound  hand  and  foot,  below  the  waves,  if, 
indeed,  the  fish  had  not  devoured  them  already. 

Only  a  few  paces  away,  the  treacherous  steersman 
and  the  sailor  who  had  boasted  of  the  Parisian's  power 
were  fraternising  with  the  crew  of  the  Othello^  and 
pointing  out  those  among  their  own  number  who,  in 


i8o 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


their  opinion,  were  worthy  to  join  the  crew  of  the 
privateer.  Then  the  boys  tied  the  rest  together  by  the 
feet  in  spite  of  frightful  oaths.  It  was  soon  over  ;  the 
eight  gunners  seized  the  doomed  men  and  flung  them 
overboard  without  more  ado,  watching  the  different 
ways  in  which  the  drowning  victims  met  their  death, 
their  contortions,  their  last  agony,  with  a  sort  of 
malignant  curiosity,  but  with  no  sign  of  amusement, 
surprise,  or  pity.  For  them  it  was  an  ordinary  event  to 
which  seemingly  they  were  quite  accustomed.  The 
older  men  looked  instead  with  grim,  set  smiles  at  the 
casks  of  piastres  about  the  main  mast. 

The  General  and  Captain  Gomez,  left  seated  on  a 
bale  of  goods,  consulted  each  other  with  well  nigh 
hopeless  looks  ;  they  were,  in  a  sense,  the  sole  survivors 
of  the  Saint-Ferdinand,  for  the  seven  men  pointed  out 
by  the  spies  were  transformed  amid  rejoicings  into 
Peruvians. 

'  What  atrocious  villains  ! 9  the  General  cried.  Loyal 
and  generous  indignation  silenced  prudence  and  pain  on 
his  own  account. 

F  They  do  it  because  they  must,'  Gomez  answered 
coolly.  c  If  you  came  across  one  of  those  fellows,  you 
would  run  him  through  the  body,  would  you  not  ?  ■ 

The  lieutenant  now  came  up  to  the  Spaniard. 

4 Captain,'  said  he,  'the  Parisian  has  heard  of  you. 
He  says  that  you  are  the  only  man  who  really  knows  the 
passages  of  the  Antilles  and  the  Brazilian  coast.  Will 


The  captain  cut  him  short  with  a  scornful  exclamation. 

c  I  shall  die  like  a  sailor,'  he  said,  '  and  a  loyal  Spaniard 
and  a  Christian.    Do  you  hear  ?  ' 

*  Heave  him  overboard  !  '  shouted  the  lieutenant,  and  a 
couple  of  gunners  seized  on  Gomez. 

€  You  cowards  ! 9  roared  the  General,  seizing  hold  of 
the  men. 

4  Don't  get  too  excited,  old  boy,'  said  the  lieutenant. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  181 


*If  your  red  ribbon  has  made  some  impression  upon  our 
captain,  I  myself  do  not  care  a  rap  for  it. — You  and  I 
will  have  our  little  bit  of  talk  together  directly.' 

A  smothered  sound,  with  no  accompanying  cry,  told 
the  General  that  the  gallant  captain  had  died  'like  a 
sailor,'  as  he  had  said. 

i  My  money  or  death  !  '  cried  the  Marquis,  in  a  fit  of 
rage  terrible  to  see. 

4  Ah  !  now  you  talk  sensibly  ! 1  sneered  the  lieutenant. 
1  That  is  the  way  to  get  something  out  of  us  ' 

Two  of  the  men  came  up  at  a  sign  and  hastened  to 
bind  the  Frenchman's  feet,  but  with  unlooked-for  bold- 
ness he  snatched  the  lieutenant's  cutlass  and  laid  about 
him  like  a  cavalry  officer  who  knows  his  business. 

5  Brigands  that  you  are  !  You  shall  not  chuck  one  of 
Napoleon's  old  troopers  over  a  ship's  side  like  an 
oyster  !  ' 

At  the  sound  of  pistol  shots  fired  point  blank  at  the 
Frenchman,  'the  Parisian'  looked  round  from  his 
occupation  of  superintending  the  transfer  of  the  rigging 
from  the  Saint- Ferdinand.  He  came  up  behind  the 
brave  General,  seized  him,  dragged  him  to  the  side,  and 
was  about  to  fling  him  over  with  no  more  concern  than 
if  the  man  had  been  a  broken  spar.  They  were  at  the 
very  edge  when  the  General  looked  into  the  tawny  eyes 
of  the  man  who  had  stolen  his  daughter.  The  recogni- 
tion was  mutual. 

The  captain  of  the  privateer,  his  arm  still  upraised, 
suddenly  swung  it  in  the  contrary  direction  as  if  his 
victim  was  but  a  feather  weight,  and  set  him  down  at 
the  foot  of  the  main  mast.  A  murmur  rose  on  the 
upper  deck,  but  the  captain  glanced  round,  and  there 
was  a  sudden  silence. 

'This  is  Hélène's  father,'  said  the  captain  in  a  clear, 
firm  voice.    5  Woe  to  any  one  who  meddles  with  him  !  ' 

A  hurrah  of  joy  went  up  at  the  words,  a  shout  rising 
to  the  sky  like  a  prayer  of  the  church  ;  a  cry  like  the 


i8i  A  Woman  of  Thirty 

first  high  notes  of  the  Te  Deum.  The  lads  swung  aloft 
in  the  rigging,  the  men  below  flung  up  their  caps,  the 
gunners  pounded  away  on  the  deck,  there  was  a  general 
thrill  of  excitement,  an  outburst  of  oaths,  yells,  and  shrill 
cries  in  voluble  chorus.  The  men  cheered  like  fanatics, 
the  General's  misgivings  deepened,  and  he  grew  uneasy  ; 
it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  some  horrible  mystery 
in  such  wild  transports. 

c  My  daughter  !  '  he  cried,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak. 
6  Where  is  my  daughter  ?  ! 

For  all  answer,  the  captain  of  the  privateer  gave  him 
a  searching  glance,  one  of  those  glances  which  throw 
the  bravest  man  into  a  confusion  which  no  theory 
can  explain.  The  General  was  mute,  not  a  little  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  crew  ;  it  pleased  them  to  see  their 
leader  exercise  the  strange  power  which  he  possessed 
over  all  with  whom  he  came  in  contact.  Then  the 
captain  led  the  way  down  a  staircase  and  flung  open  the 
door  of  a  cabin. 

c  There  she  is,'  he  said,  and  disappeared,  leaving  the 
General  in  a  stupor  of  bewilderment  at  the  scene  before 
his  eyes. 

Hélène  cried  out  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  sprang  up 
from  the  sofa  on  which  she  was  lying  when  the  door 
flew  open.  So  changed  was  she  that  none  but  a  father's 
eyes  could  have  recognised  her.  The  sun  of  the  tropics 
had  brought  warmer  tones  into  the  once  pale  face,  and 
something  of  Oriental  charm  with  that  wonderful 
colouring;  there  was  a  certain  grandeur  about  her,  a 
majestic  firmness,  a  profound  sentiment  which  impresses 
itself  upon  the  coarsest  nature.  Her  long,  thick  hair, 
falling  in  large  curls  about  her  queenly  throat,  gave 
an  added  idea  of  power  to  the  proud  face.  The  con- 
sciousness of  that  power  shone  out  from  every  move- 
ment, every  line  of  Hélène's  form.  The  rose-tinted 
nostrils  were  dilated  slightly  with  the  joy  of  triumph  ; 
the  serene  happiness  of  her  life  had  left  its  plain  tokens  in 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


i«3 


the  full  development  of  her  beauty.  A  certain  indefin- 
able virginal  grace  met  in  her  with  the  pride  of  a 
woman  who  is  loved.  This  was  a  slave  and  a  queen, 
a  queen  who  would  fain  obey  that  she  might  reign. 

Her  dress  was  magnificent  and  elegant  in  its  richness; 
India  muslin  was  the  sole  material,  but  her  sofa  and 
cushions  were  of  cashmere.  A  Persian  carpet  covered 
the  floor  in  the  large  cabin,  and  her  four  children  playing 
at  her  feet  were  building  castles  of  gems  and  pearl 
necklaces  and  jewels  of  price.  The  air  was  full  of  the 
scent  of  rare  flowers  in  Sèvres  porcelain  vases  painted 
by  Mme.  Jacotot;  tiny  South  American  birds,  like 
living  rubies,  sapphires,  and  gold,  hovered  among  the 
Mexican  jessamines  and  camellias.  A  pianoforte  had 
been  fitted  into  the  room,  and  here  and  there  on  the 
panelled  walls,  covered  with  red  silk,  hung  small  pictures 
by  great  painters — a  Sunset  by  Hippolyte  Schinner 
beside  a  Terburg,  one  of  Rafael's  Madonnas  scarcely 
yielded  in  charm  to  a  sketch  by  Géricault,  while  a 
Gerard  Dow  eclipsed  the  painters  of  the  Empire.  On 
a  lacquered  table  stood  a  golden  plate  full  of  delicious 
fruit.  Indeed,  Hélène  might  have  been  the  sovereign 
lady  of  some  great  country,  and  this  cabin  of  hers  a 
boudoir  in  which  her  crowned  lover  had  brought  together 
all  earth's  treasures  to  please  his  consort.  The  children 
gazed  with  bright,  keen  eyes  at  their  grandfather. 
Accustomed  as  they  were  to  a  life  of  battle,  storm,  and 
tumult,  they  recalled  the  Roman  children  in  David's 
Brutus^  watching  the  fighting  and  bloodshed  with 
curious  interest. 

4  What  !  is  it  possible  ?  '  cried  Hélène,  catching 
her  father's  arm  as  if  to  assure  herself  that  this  was  no 
vision. 

<  Hélène  !  ' 

<  Father  !' 

They  fell  into  each  other's  arms,  and  the  old  man's 
embrace  was  not  so  close  and  warm  as  Hélène's. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


4  Were  you  on  board  that  vessel  ?  * 

4  Yes,'  he  answered  sadly,  and  looking  at  the  little 
ones,  who  gathered  about  him  and  gazed  with  wide  open 
eyes. 

4  I  was  about  to  perish,  but  ' 

i  But  for  my  husband,'  she  broke  in.  4 1  see  how  it 
was.' 

4  Ah  !  '  cried  the  General,  *  why  must  I  find  you  again 
like  this,  Hélène  ?  After  all  the  many  tears  that  I  have 
shed,  must  I  still  groan  for  your  fate  ?  ' 

4  And  why  ?  '  she  asked,  smiling.  4  Why  should  you  be 
sorry  to  learn  that  I  am  the  happiest  woman  under  the 
sun  ? 1 

4  Happy  ?  '  he  cried,  with  a  start  of  surprise. 

4  Yes,  happy,  my  kind  father,'  and  she  caught  his  hands 
in  hers  and  covered  them  with  kisses,  and  pressed  them 
to  her  throbbing  heart.  Her  caresses,  and  a  something 
in  the  carriage  of  her  head,  were  interpreted  yet  more 
plainly  by  the  joy  sparkling  in  her  eyes. 

4  And  how  is  this  ?  '  he  asked,  wondering  at  his 
daughter's  life,  forgetful  now  of  everything  but  the 
bright  glowing  face  before  him. 

4  Listen,  father;  I  have  for  lover,  husband,  servant,  and 
master  one  whose  soul  is  as  great  as  the  boundless  sea, 
as  infinite  in  his  kindness  as  heaven,  a  god  on  earth  ! 
Never  during  these  seven  years  has  a  chance  look,  or 
word,  or  gesture  jarred  in  the  divine  harmony  of  his 
talk,  his  love,  his  caresses.  His  eyes  have  never  met 
mine  without  a  gleam  of  happiness  in  them  ;  there  has 
always  been  a  bright  smile  on  his  lips  for  me.  On  deck, 
his  voice  rises  above  the  thunder  of  storms  and  the 
tumult  of  battle  ;  but  here  below  it  is  soft  and  melodi- 
ous as  Rossini's  music — for  he  has  Rossini's  music  sent 
for  me.  I  have  everything  that  woman's  caprice  can 
imagine.  My  wishes  are  more  than  fulfilled.  In  short, 
I  am  a  queen  on  the  seas  ;  I  am  obeyed  here  as  perhaps  a 
queen  may  be  obeyed. — Ah  !  '  she  cried,  interrupting 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  185 

herself, i happy  did  I  say  ?  Happiness  is  no  word  to  express 
such  bliss  as  mine.  All  the  happiness  that  should  have 
fallen  to  all  the  women  in  the  world  has  been  my  share. 
Knowing  one's  own  great  love  and  self-devotion,  to  find 
in  his  heart  an  infinite  love  in  which  a  woman's  soul  is  lost, 
and  lost  for  ever — tell  me,  is  this  happiness  ?  I  have  lived 
through  a  thousand  lives  even  now.  Here,  I  am  alone  ; 
here,  I  command.  No  other  woman  has  set  foot  on 
this  noble  vessel,  and  Victor  is  never  more  than  a  few 
paces  distant  from  me, — he  cannot  wander  further  from 
me  than  from  stern  to  prow,'  she  added,  with  a  shade  of 
mischief  in  her  manner.  6  Seven  years  !  A  love  that 
outlasts  seven  years  of  continual  joy,  that  endures  all  the 
tests  brought  by  all  the  moments  that  make  up  seven 
years — is  this  love  ?  Oh,  no,  no  !  it  is  something  better 
than  all  that  I  know  of  life  .  .  .  human  language  fails 
to  express  the  bliss  of  heaven.' 

A  sudden  torrent  of  tears  fell  from  her  burning  eyes. 
The  four  little  ones  raised  a  piteous  cry  at  this,  and 
flocked  like  chickens  about  their  mother.  The  oldest 
boy  struck  the  General  with  a  threatening  look. 

c  Abel,   darling,'   said    Hélène,   4 1   am  crying  for 

Hélène  took  him  on  her  knee,  and  the  child  fondled 
her,  putting  his  arms  about  her  queenly  neck,  as  a  lion's 
whelp  might  play  with  the  lioness. 

6  Do  you  never  weary  of  your  life  ?  '  asked  the  General, 
bewildered  by  his  daughter's  enthusiastic  language. 

c  Yes,'  she  said,  *  sometimes,  when  we  are  on  land, 
yet  even  then  I  have  never  parted  from  my  husband.' 

4  But  you  used  to  be  fond  of  music  and  balls  and  fêtes.' 

4  His  voice  is  music  for  me  ;  and  for  fêtes,  I  devise 
new  toilettes  for  him  to  see.  When  he  likes  my  dress, 
it  is  as  if  all  the  world  admired  me.  Simply  for  that 
reason  I  keep  the  diamonds  and  jewels,  the  precious 
things,  the  flowers  and  masterpieces  of  art  that  he  heaps 
upon  me,  saying,  c  Hélène,  as  you  live  out  of  the  world, 


i86 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


I  will  have  the  world  come  to  you.'  But  for  that  I 
would  fling  them  all  overboard.' 

c  But  there  are  others  on  board,  wild,  reckless  men 
whose  passions  ' 

1  I  understand,  father,'  she  said,  smiling.  '  Do  not 
fear  for  me.  Never  was  empress  encompassed  with 
more  observance  than  L  The  men  are  very  super- 
stitious ;  they  look  upon  me  as  a  sort  of  tutelary  genius, 
the  luck  of  the  vessel.  But  he  is  their  god  ;  they  worship 
him.  Once,  and  once  only,  one  of  the  crew  showed  dis- 
respect, mere  words,'  she  added,  laughing  ;  4  but  before 
Victor  knew  of  it,  the  others  flung  the  offender  over- 
board, although  I  forgave  him.  They  love  me  as  their 
good  angel  ;  I  nurse  them  when  they  are  ill  ;  several 
times  I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  save  a  life,  by 
constant  care  such  as  a  woman  can  give.  Poor  fellows, 
they  are  giants,  but  they  are  children  at  the  same 
time.' 

c  And  when  there  is  righting  overhead  ?  ! 

6 1  am  used  to  it  now;  I  quaked  for  fear  during  the 
first  engagement,  but  never  since. — I  am  used  to  such 
peril,  and — I  am  your  daughter,'  she  said  ;  c  I  love  it.' 

c  But  how  if  he  should  fall  ?  ' 

!  I  should  die  with  him.' 

4  And  your  children.' 

c  They  are  children  of  the  sea  and  of  danger  j  they 
share  the  life  of  their  parents.  We  have  but  one  life, 
and  we  do  not  flinch  from  it.  We  have  but  the  one  life, 
our  names  are  written  on  the  same  page  of  the  book  of 
Fate,  one  skiff  bears  us  and  our  fortunes,  and  we  know 
it.' 

cDo  vou  so  love  him  that  he  is  more  to  you  than 
all  beside  ?  ' 

'  All  beside  ?  '  echoed  she,  4  Let  us  leave  that  mystery 
alone.  Yet  stay  !  there  is  this  dear  little  one — well,  this 
too  is  hej  and  straining  Abel  to  her  in  a  tight  clasp,  she 
set  eager  kisses  on  his  cheeks  and  hair. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


i87 


*  But  I  can  never  forget  that  he  has  just  drowned  nine 
men  !  '  exclaimed  the  General. 

4  There  was  no  help  for  it,  doubtless,'  she  said, c  for  he 
is  generous  and  humane.  He  sheds  as  little  blood  as  may 
be,  and  only  in  the  interests  of  the  little  world  which  he 
defends,  and  the  sacred  cause  for  which  he  is  fighting. 
Talk  to  him  about  anything  that  seems  to  you  to  be 
wrong,  and  he  will  convince  you,  you  will  see.' 

*  There  was  that  crime  of  his,'  muttered  the  General 
to  himself. 

c  But  how  if  that  crime  was  a  virtue  ?  '  she  asked,  with 
cold  dignity.  c  How  if  man's  justice  had  failed  to  avenge 
a  great  wrong  ?  ' 

i  But  a  private  revenge  !  '  exclaimed  her  father. 

€  But  what  is  hell,'  she  cried,  c  but  a  revenge  through 
all  eternity  for  the  wrong  done  in  a  little  day  ?  ' 

c  Ah  !  you  are  lost  !  He  has  bewitched  and  perverted 
you.    You  are  talking  wildly.' 

'Stay  with  us  one  day,  father,  and  if  you  will  but 
listen  to  him,  and  see  him,  you  will  love  him.' 

'  Hélène,  France  lies  only  a  few  leagues  away,'  he 
said  gravely. 

Hélène  trembled  ;  then  she  went  to  the  porthole  and 
pointed  to  the  savannahs  of  green  water  spreading  far 
and  wide. 

c  There  lies  my  country/  she  said,  tapping  the  carpet 
with  her  foot. 

c  But  are  you  not  coming  with  me  to  see  your  mother 
and  your  sisters  and  brothers  ?  ' 

c  Oh  !  yes,'  she  cried,  with  tears  in  her  voice,  *  if  he 
is  willing,  if  he  will  come  with  me.' 

*  So,'  the  General  said  sternly,  c  you  have  neither 
country  nor  kin  now,  Hélène  ?  ' 

c 1  am  his  wife,'  she  answered  proudly,  and  there  was 
something  very  noble  in  her  tone.  'This  is  the  first 
happiness  in  seven  years  that  has  not  come  to  me  through 
him,'  she  said — then,  as  she  caught  her  father's  hand  and 


i88 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


kissed  it — '  and  this  is  the  first  word  of  reproach  that  I 
have  heard.' 

c  And  your  conscience  ?  f 

*  My  conscience  ;  he  is  my  conscience  !  '  she  cried, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot,  4  Here  he  is  !  Even  in 
the  thick  of  a  fight  I  can  tell  his  footstep  among  all  the 
others  on  deck,'  she  cried. 

A  sudden  crimson  flushed  her  cheeks  and  glowed 
in  her  features,  her  eyes  lighted  up,  her  complexion 
changed  to  velvet  whiteness  ;  there  was  joy  and  love 
in  every  fibre,  in  the  blue  veins,  in  the  unconscious 
trembling  of  her  whole  frame.  That  quiver  of  the 
sensitive  plant  softened  the  General. 

It  was  as  she  had  said.  The  captain  came  in,  sat  down 
in  an  easy-chair,  took  up  his  oldest  boy,  and  began  to 
play  with  him.  There  was  a  moment's  silence,  for  the 
General's  deep  musing  had  grown  vague  and  dreamy,  and 
the  daintily  furnished  cabin  and  the  playing  children 
seemed  like  a  nest  of  halcyons,  floating  on  the  waves, 
between  sky  and  sea,  safe  in  the  protection  of  this  man 
who  steered  his  way  amid  the  perils  of  war  and  tempest, 
as  other  heads  of  households  guide  those  in  their  care 
among  the  hazards  of  common  life.  He  gazed  admir- 
ingly at  Hélène — a  dreamlike  vision  of  some  sea  goddess, 
gracious  in  her  loveliness,  rich  in  happiness  ;  all  the 
treasures  about  her  grown  poor  in  comparison  with  the 
wealth  of  her  nature,  paling  before  the  brightness  of  her 
eyes,  the  indefinable  romance  expressed  in  her  and  her 
surroundings. 

The  strangeness  of  the  situation  took  the  General  by 
surprise  ;  the  ideas  of  ordinary  life  were  thrown  into 
confusion  by  this  lofty  passion  and  reasoning.  Chill 
and  narrow,  social  conventions  faded  away  before  this 
picture.  All  these  things  the  old  soldier  felt,  and  saw 
no  less  how  impossible  it  was  that  his  daughter  should 
give  up  so  wide  a  life,  a  life  so  variously  rich,  filled  to 
the  full  with  such  passionate  love.    And  Hélène  had 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


tasted  danger  without  shrinking  ;  how  could  she  return 
to  the  petty  stage,  the  superficial  circumscribed  life  of 
society  ? 

It  was  the  captain  who  broke  the  silence  at  last. 

4  Am  I  in  the  way  ?  '  he  asked,  looking  at  his  wife. 

4  No,'  said  the  General,  answering  for  her.  4  Hélène 
has  told  me  all.    I  see  that  she  is  lost  to  us  ' 

4  No,'  the  captain  put  in  quickly  ;  4  in  a  few  years'  time 
the  statute  of  limitations  will  allow  me  to  go  back  to 
France.     When  the  conscience  is  clear,  and  a  man 

has  broken  the  law  in  obedience  to  *  he  stopped  short, 

as  if  scorning  to  justify  himself* 

4  How  can  you  commit  new  murders,  such  as  I  have 
seen  with  my  own  eyes,  without  remorse  ?  ' 

4  We  had  no  provisions,'  the  privateer  captain  retorted 
calmly. 

4  But  if  you  had  set  the  men  ashore  * 

4  They  would  have  given  the  alarm  and  sent  a  man- 
of-war  after  us,  and  we  should  never  have  seen  Chili 
again/ 

c  Before  France  would  have  given  warning  to  the 
Spanish  admiralty  '  began  the  General. 

4  But  France  might  take  it  amiss  that  a  man,  with  a 
warrant  still  out  against  him,  should  seize  a  brig 
chartered  by  Bordeaux  merchants.  And  for  that  matter, 
have  you  never  fired  a  shot  or  so  too  many  in  battle  ?  ' 

The  General  shrank  under  the  other's  eyes.  He  said 
no  more,  and  his  daughter  looked  at  him  half  sadly,  half 
triumphant. 

4  General,'  the  privateer  continued,  in  a  deep  voice, 
*  I  have  made  it  a  rule  to  abstract  nothing  from  booty. 
But  even  so,  my  share  will  beyond  a  doubt  be  far  larger 
than  your  fortune.  Permit  me  to  return  it  to  you  in 
another  form  ' 

He  drew  a  pile  of  bank-notes  from  the  piano,  and 
without  counting  the  packets  handed  a  million  of  francs 
to  the  Marquis. 


190 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


i  You  can  understand,9  he  said,  c  that  I  cannot  spend 
my  time  in  watching  vessels  pass  by  to  Bordeaux.  So 
unless  the  dangers  of  this  Bohemian  life  of  ours  have 
some  attraction  for  you,  unless  you  care  to  see  South 
America  and  the  nights  of  the  tropics,  and  a  bit  of 
fighting  now  and  again  for  the  pleasure  of  helping  to 
win  a  triumph  for  a  young  nation,  or  for  the  name  of 
Simon  Bolivar,  we  must  part.  The  long  boat  manned 
with  a  trustworthy  crew  is  ready  for  you.  And  now  let 
us  hope  that  our  third  meeting  will  be  completely  happy.' 

4  Victor,'  said  Hélène  in  a  dissatisfied  tone,  *  I  should 
like  to  see  a  little  more  of  my  father.' 

4  Ten  minutes  more  or  less  may  bring  up  a  French 
frigate.  However,  so  be  it,  we  shall  have  a  little  fun. 
The  men  find  things  dull.' 

1  Oh,  father,  go  !  '  cried  Hélène,  c  and  take  these  keep- 
sakes from  me  to  my  sister  and  brothers  and — mother,' 
she  added.  She  caught  up  a  handful  of  jewels  and 
precious  stones,  folded  them  in  an  Indian  shawl,  and 
timidly  held  it  out. 

6  But  what  shall  I  say  to  them  from  you  ?  '  asked  he. 
Her  hesitation  on  the  word  'mother'  seemed  to  have 
struck  him. 

c  Oh  !  can  you  doubt  me  ?  I  pray  for  their  happiness 
every  day.' 

1  Hélène,'  he  began,  as  he  watched  her  closely,  *  how 
if  we  should  not  meet  again  ?  Shall  I  never  know  why 
you  left  us  ?  ' 

'That  secret  is  not  mine,'  she  answered  gravely. 
c  Even  if  I  had  the  right  to  tell  it,  perhaps  I  should  not. 
For  ten  years  I  was  more  miserable  than  words  can 
say  ' 

She  broke  off,  and  gave  her  father  the  presents  for  her 
family.  The  General  had  acquired  tolerably  easy  views 
as  to  booty  in  the  course  of  a  soldier's  career,  so  he  took 
Hélène's  gifts  and  comforted  himself  with  the  reflection 
that  the  Parisian  captain  was  sure  to  wage  war  against 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


191 


the  Spaniards  as  an  honourable  man,  under  the  influence 
of  Hélène's  pure  and  high-minded  nature.  His  passion 
for  courage  carried  all  before  it.  It  was  ridiculous,  he 
thought,  to  be  squeamish  in  the  matter  ;  so  he  shook 
hands  cordially  with  his  captor,  and  kissed  Hélène,  his 
only  daughter,  with  a  soldier's  expansiveness  ;  letting 
fall  a  tear  on  the  face  with  the  proud,  strong  look  that 
once  he  had  loved  to  see.  c  The  Parisian,'  deeply  moved, 
brought  the  children  for  his  blessing.  The  parting  was 
over,  the  last  good-bye  was  a  long  farewell  look,  with 
something  of  tender  regret  on  either  side. 

A  strange  sight  to  seaward  met  the  General's  eyes. 
The  Saint- Ferdinand  was  blazing  like  a  huge  bonfire. 
The  men  told  off  to  sink  the  Spanish  brig  had  found  a 
cargo  of  rum  on  board  ;  and  as  the  Othello  was  already 
amply  supplied,  had  lighted  a  floating  bowl  of  punch 
on  the  high  seas,  by  way  of  a  joke  ;  a  pleasantry 
pardonable  enough  in  sailors,  who  hail  any  chance 
excitement  as  a  relief  from  the  apparent  monotony  of 
life  at  sea.  As  the  General  went  over  the  side  into  the 
long-boat  of  the  Saint- Ferdinand^  manned  by  six 
vigorous  rowers,  he  could  not  help  looking  at  the 
burning  vessel,  as  well  as  at  the  daughter  who  stood 
by  her  husband's  side  on  the  stern  of  the  Othello.  He 
saw  Hélène's  white  dress  flutter  like  one  more  sail  in 
the  breeze  ;  he  saw  the  tall,  noble  figure  against  a  back- 
ground of  sea,  queenly  still  even  in  the  presence  of 
Ocean  ;  and  so  many  memories  crowded  up  in  his  mind, 
that,  with  a  soldier's  recklessness  of  life,  he  forgot  that 
he  was  being  borne  over  the  grave  of  the  brave  Gomez. 

A  vast  column  of  smoke  rising  spread  like  a  brown 
cloud,  pierced  here  and  there  by  fantastic  shafts  of 
sunlight.  It  was  a  second  sky,  a  murky  dome  reflecting 
the  glow  of  the  fire  as  if  the  under  surface  had  been 
burnished  ;  but  above  it  soared  the  unchanging  blue  of 
the  firmament,  a  thousand  times  fairer  for  the  short-lived 


192 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


contrast.  The  strange  hues  of  the  smoke  cloud,  black 
and  red,  tawny  and  pale  by  turns,  blurred  and  blending 
into  each  other,  shrouded  the  burning  vessel  as  it 
flared,  crackled,  and  groaned  ;  the  hissing  tongues  of 
flame  licked  up  the  rigging,  and  flashed  across  the 
hull,  like  a  rumour  of  riot  flashing  along  the  streets  of 
a  city.  The  burning  rum  sent  up  blue  flitting  lights. 
Some  sea  god  might  have  been  stirring  the  furious 
liquor  as  a  student  stirs  the  joyous  flames  of  punch  in  an 
orgie.  But  in  the  overpowering  sunlight,  jealous  of  the 
insolent  blaze,  the  colours  were  scarcely  visible,  and  the 
smoke  was  but  a  film  fluttering  like  a  thin  scarf  in  the 
noonday  torrent  of  light  and  heat. 

The  Othello  made  the  most  of  the  little  wind  she 
could  gain  to  fly  on  her  new  course.  Swaying  first  to 
one  side,  then  to  the  other,  like  a  stag  beetle  on  the 
wing,  the  fair  vessel  beat  to  windward  on  her  zigzag 
flight  to  the  south.  Sometimes  she  was  hidden  from 
sight  by  the  straight  column  of  smoke  that  flung  fantastic 
shadows  across  the  water,  then  gracefully  she  shot  out 
clear  of  it,  and  Hélène,  catching  sight  of  her  father, 
waved  her  handkerchief  for  yet  one  more  farewell 
greeting. 

A  few  more  minutes,  and  the  Saint- Ferdinand  went 
down  with  a  bubbling  turmoil,  at  once  effaced  by  the 
ocean.  Nothing  of  all  that  had  been  was  left  but  a 
smoke  cloud  hanging  in  the  breeze.  The  Othello  was 
far  away,  the  long-boat  had  almost  reached  land,  the 
cloud  came  between  the  frail  skiff  and  the  brig,  and  it 
was  through  a  break  in  the  swaying  smoke  that  the 
General  caught  the  last  glimpse  of  Hélène.  A  prophetic 
vision  !  Her  dress  and  her  white  handkerchief  stood 
out  against  the  murky  background.  Then  the  brig  was 
not  even  visible  between  the  green  water  and  the  blue 
sky,  and  Hélène  was  nothing  but  an  imperceptible  speck, 
a  faint  graceful  line,  an  angel  in  heaven,  a  mental 
image,  a  memory. 


A  Woman  ôf  Thirty 


l93 


The  Marquis  had  retrieved  his  fortunes,  when  he 
died,  worn  out  with  toil.  A  few  months  after  his 
death,  in  1833,  the  Marquise  was  obliged  to  take  Moïna 
to  a  watering-place  in  the  Pyrenees,  for  the  capricious 
child  had  a  wish  to  see  the  beautiful  mountain  scenery. 
They  left  the  baths,  and  the  following  tragical  incident 
occurred  on  their  way  home. 

4  Dear  me,  mother,'  said  Moïna,  4  it  was  very  foolish 
of  us  not  to  stay  among  the  mountains  a  few  days  longer. 
It  was  much  nicer  there.  Did  you  hear  that  horrid 
child  moaning  all  night,  and  that  wretched  woman, 
gabbling  away  in  patois  no  doubt,  for  I  could  not  under- 
stand a  single  word  she  said.  What  kind  of  people  can 
they  have  put  in  the  next  room  to  ours  ?  This  is  one 
of  the  horridest  nights  I  have  ever  spent  in  my  life.' 

4  I  heard  nothing,'  said  the  Marquise,  4  but  I  will  see 
the  landlady,  darling,  and  engage  the  next  room,  and  then 
we  shall  have  the  whole  suite  of  rooms  to  ourselves,  and 
there  will  be  no  more  noise.  How  do  you  feel  this 
morning  ?    Are  you  tired  ?  ' 

As  she  spoke,  the  Marquise  rose  and  went  to  Moïna's 
bedside. 

*  Let  us  see,'  she  said,  feeling  for  the  girl's  hand. 
i  Oh  !  let  me  alone,  mother,'  said  Moïna  ;  4  your  fingers 
are  cold.' 

She  turned  her  head  round  on  the  pillow  as  she  spoke, 
pettishly,  but  with  such  engaging  grace,  that  a  mothei 
could  scarcely  have  taken  it  amiss.  Just  then  a  wailing 
cry  echoed  through  the  next  room,  a  faint  prolonged  cry, 
that  must  surely  have  gone  to  the  heart  of  any  woman 
who  heard  it. 

4  Why,  if  you  heard  that  all  night  long,  why  did  you 
not  wake  me  ?    We  should  have  ' 

A  deeper  moan  than  any  that  had  gone  before  it  inter- 
rupted the  Marquise. 

4  Some  one  is  dying  there,'  she  cried,  and  hurried  out 
of  the  room. 

N 


1 94 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


i  Send  Pauline  to  me  !  !  called  Moïna.  4 1  shall  get  up 
and  dress.' 

The  Marquise  hastened  downstairs,  and  found  the 
landlady  in  the  courtyard  with  a  little  group  about  her, 
apparently  much  interested  in  something  that  she  was 
telling  them. 

c  Madame,  you  have  put  some  one  in  the  next  room 
who  seems  to  be  very  ill  indeed  ' 

i  Oh  !  don't  talk  to  me  about  it  !  '  cried  the  mistress  of 
the  house.  F  I  have  just  sent  some  one  for  the  mayor. 
Just  imagine  it  ;  it  is  a  woman,  a  poor  unfortunate 
creature  that  came  here  last  night  on  foot.  She 
comes  from  Spain  ;  she  has  no  passport  and  no  money  ; 
she  was  carrying  her  baby  on  her  back,  and  the  child  was 
dying.  1  could  not  refuse  to  take  her  in.  I  went  up  to 
see  her  this  morning  myself  ;  for  when  she  turned  up 
yesterday,  it  made  me  feel  dreadfully  bad  to  look  at  her. 
Poor  soul  !  she  and  the  child  were  lying  in  bed,  and 
both  of  them  at  death's  door.  "Madame,"  says  she, 
pulling  a  gold  ring  off  her  finger,  "  this  is  all  that  I  have 
left  j  take  it  in  payment,  it  will  be  enough  ;  I  shall  not 
stay  here  long.  Poor  little  one  !  we  shall  die  together 
soon  !  "  she  said,  looking  at  the  child.  I  took  her  ring, 
and  I  asked  her  who  she  was,  but  she  never  would  tell 
me  her  name.  .  .  .  I  have  just  sent  for  the  doctor  and 
M.  le  Maire.' 

'  Why,  you  must  do  all  that  can  be  done  for  her,'  cried 
the  Marquise.  '  Good  heavens  !  perhaps  it  is  not  too 
late  !    I  will  pay  for  everything  that  is  necessary  ' 

c  Ah  !  my  lady,  she  looks  to  me  to  be  uncommonly 
proud,  and  I  don't  know  that  she  would  allow  it.' 

4 1  will  go  to  see  her  at  once.' 

The  Marquise  went  up  forthwith  to  the  stranger's 
room,  without  thinking  of  the  shock  that  the  sight  of 
her  widow's  weeds  might  give  to  a  woman  who  was  said 
to  be  dying.  At  the  sight  of  that  dying  woman  the 
Marquise  turned  pale.    In  spite  of  the  changes  wrought 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  195 

by  fearful  suffering  in  Hélène's  beautiful  face,  she  recog- 
nised her  eldest  daughter. 

But  Hélène,  when  she  saw  a  woman  dressed  in  black, 
sat  upright  in  bed  with  a  shriek  of  horror.  Then  she 
sank  back  ;  she  knew  her  mother. 

'  My  daughter,'  said  Mme.  d'Aiglemont, c  what  is  to 
be  done  ?    Pauline  !  .  .  .  Moïna  !  .  .  .  ' 

'Nothing  now  for  me,' said  Hélène  faintly.  'I  had 
hoped  to  see  my  father  once  more,  but  your  mourn- 
ing '  she  broke  off,  clutched  her  child  to  her  heart 

as  if  to  give  it  warmth,  and  kissed  its  forehead.  Then 
she  turned  her  eyes  on  her  mother,  and  the  Marquise 
met  the  old  reproach  in  them,  tempered  with  forgiveness, 
it  is  true,  but  still  reproach.  She  saw  it,  and  would  not 
see  it.  She  forgot  that  Hélène  was  the  child  conceived 
amid  tears  and  despair,  the  child  of  duty,  the  cause  of  one 
of  the  greatest  sorrows  in  her  life.  She  stole  to  her 
eldest  daughter's  side,  remembering  nothing  but  that 
Hélène  was  her  firstborn,  the  child  who  had  taught  her 
to  know  the  joys  of  motherhood.  The  mother's  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.  c  Hélène,  my  child  !  .  .  .  '  she  cried, 
with  her  arms  about  her  daughter. 

Hélène  was  silent.  Her  own  babe  had  just  drawn  itr 
last  breath  on  her  breast. 

Moïna  came  into  the  room  with  Pauline,  her  maid, 
and  the  landlady  and  the  doctor.  The  Marquise  was 
holding  her  daughter's  ice-cold  hand  in  both  of  hers, 
and  gazing  at  her  in  despair  ;  but  the  widowed  woman, 
who  had  escaped  shipwreck  with  but  one  of  all  her  fair 
band  of  children,  spoke  in  a  voice  that  was  dreadful  to 
hear.  4  All  this  is  your  work,'  she  said.  c  If  you  had  but 
been  for  me,  all  that  ' 

4  Moïna,  go  !  Go  out  of  the  room,  all  of  you  !  '  cried 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  her  shrill  tones  drowning  Hélène's 
voice. — *  For  pity's  sake,'  she  continued, i  let  us  not  begin 
these  miserable  quarrels  again  now  * 

*I  will  be  silent,'  Hélène  answered  with  a  prêter- 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


natural  effort.    4  I  am  a  mother  ;  I  know  that  Moi'na 

ought  not.  .  .  .  Where  is  my  child  ?  9 
Moi'na  came  back,  impelled  by  curiosity. 

4  Sister/  said  the  spoilt  child,  4  the  doctor  9 

4  It  is  all  of  no  use/  said  Hélène.     4  Oh  !  why  did  I 

not  die  as  a  girl  of  sixteen  when  1  meant  to  take  my  own 

life  ?   There  is  no  happiness  outside  the  laws.  Moi'na 

.  .  .  you  .  .  .  • 

Her  head  sank  till  her  face  lay  against  the  face  of  the 

little  one  ;  in  her  agony  she  strained  her  babe  to  her 

breast,  and  died. 

4  Your  sister,  Moi'na/  said  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  burst- 
ing into  tears  when  she  reached  her  room,  4  your  sister 
meant  no  doubt  to  tell  you  that  a  girl  will  never  find 
happiness  in  a  romantic  life,  in  living  as  nobody  else  does, 
and,  above  all  things,  far  away  from  her  mother.' 


VI 

THE  OLD  AGE  OF  A  GUILTY  MOTHER 

It  was  one  of  the  earliest  June  days  of  the  year  1844. 
A  lady  of  fifty  or  thereabouts,  for  she  looked  older  than 
her  actual  age,  was  pacing  up  and  down  one  of  the 
sunny  paths  in  the  garden  of  a  great  mansion  in  the  Rue 
Plumet  in  Paris.  It  was  noon.  The  lady  took  two  or 
three  turns  along  the  gently  winding  garden  walk,  care- 
ful never  to  lose  sight  of  a  certain  row  of  windows,  to 
which  she  seemed  to  give  her  whole  attention  ;  then  she 
sat  down  on  a  bench,  a  piece  of  elegant  semi-rusticity 
made  of  branches  with  the  bark  left  on  the  wood.  From 
the  place  where  she  sat  she  could  look  through  the  gar- 
den railings  along  the  inner  boulevards  to  the  wonderful 
dome  of  the  Invalides  rising  above  the  crests  of  a  forest 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


197 


of  elm-trees,  and  see  the  less  striking  view  of  her  own 
grounds  terminating  in  the  grey  stone  front  of  one  of 
the  finest  hotels  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain. 

Silence  lay  over  the  neighbouring  gardens,  and  the 
boulevards  stretching  away  to  the  Invalides.  Day 
scarcely  begins  at  noon  in  that  aristocratic  quarter,  and 
masters  and  servants  are  all  alike  asleep,  or  just  awaken- 
ing, unless  some  young  lady  takes  it  into  her  head  to  go 
for  an  early  ride,  or  a  grey-headed  diplomatist  rises 
betimes  to  redraft  a  protocol. 

The  elderly  lady  stirring  abroad  at  that  hour  was  the 
Marquise  d'Aiglemont,  the  mother  of  Mme.  de  Saint- 
Héreen,  to  whom  the  great  house  belonged.  The 
Marquise  had  made  over  the  mansion  and  aimost  her 
whole  fortune  to  her  daughter,  reserving  only  an  annuity 
for  herself. 

The  Comtesse  Moïna  de  Saint-Héreen  was  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont's  youngest  child.  The  Marquise  had  made 
every  sacrifice  to  marry  her  daughter  to  the  eldest  son  of 
one  of  the  greatest  houses  of  France  ;  and  this  was  only 
what  might  have  been  expected,  for  the  lady  had  lost  her 
sons,  first  one  and  then  the  other.  Gustave,  Marquis 
d'Aiglemont,  had  died  of  the  cholera  ;  Abel,  the  second, 
had  fallen  in  Algeria.  Gustave  had  left  a  widow  and 
children,  but  the  dowager's  affection  for  her  sons  had 
been  only  moderately  warm,  and  for  the  next  generation 
it  was  decidedly  tepid.  She  was  always  civil  to  her 
daughter-in-law,  but  her  feeling  towards  the  young 
Marquise  was  the  distinctly  conventional  affection  which 
good  taste  and  good  manners  require  us  to  feel  for  our 
relatives.  The  fortunes  of  her  dead  children  having 
been  settled,  she  could  devote  her  savings  and  her  own 
property  to  her  darling  Moïna. 

Moïna,  beautiful  and  fascinating  from  childhood,  was 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  favourite;  loved  beyond  all  the 
others  with  an  instinctive  or  involuntary  love,  a  fatal 
drawing  of  the  heart,  which  sometimes  seems  inexplic- 


198 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


able,  sometimes,  and  to  a  close  observer,  only  too  easy  to 
explain.  Her  darling's  pretty  face,  the  sound  of  Moïna's 
voice,  her  ways,  her  manner,  her  looks  and  gestures, 
roused  all  the  deepest  emotions  that  can  stir  a  mother's 
heart  with  trouble,  rapture,  or  delight.  The  springs  of 
the  Marquise's  life,  of  yesterday,  to-morrow,  and  to-day, 
lay  in  that  young  heart.  Moïna,  with  better  fortune,  had 
survived  four  older  children.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mmeft 
d'Aiglemont  had  lost  her  eldest  daughter,  a  charming 
girl,  in  a  most  unfortunate  manner,  said  gossip,  nobody 
knew  exactly  what  became  of  her  ;  and  then  she  lost  a 
little  boy  of  five  by  a  dreadful  accident. 

The  child  of  her  affections  had,  however,  been  spared 
to  her,  and  doubtless  the  Marquise  saw  the  will  of  Heaven 
in  that  fact  ;  for  of  those  who  had  died,  she  kept  but  very 
shadowy  recollections  in  some  far-off  corner  of  her  heart  ; 
her  memories  of  her  dead  children  were  like  the  head- 
stones on  a  battlefield,  you  can  scarcely  see  them  for  the 
flowers  that  have  sprung  up  about  them  since.  Of 
course,  if  the  world  had  chosen,  it  might  have  said  some 
hard  truths  about  the  Marquise,  might  have  taken  her 
to  task  for  shallowness  and  an  overweening  preference 
for  one  child  at  the  expense  of  the  rest  ;  but  the  world 
of  Paris  is  swept  along  by  the  full  flood  of  new  events, 
new  ideas,  and  new  fashions,  and  it  was  inevitable  that 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont  should  be  in  some  sort  allowed  to 
drop  out  of  sight.  So  nobody  thought  of  blaming  her 
for  coldness  or  neglect  which  concerned  no  one,  whereas 
her  quick,  apprehensive  tenderness  for  Moïna  was  found 
highly  interesting  by  not  a  few  who  respected  it  as  a  sort 
of  superstition.  Besides,  the  Marquise  scarcely  went 
into  society  at  all  ;  and  the  few  families  who  knew  her 
thought  of  her  as  a  kindly,  gentle,  indulgent  woman, 
wholly  devoted  to  her  family.  What  but  a  curiosity, 
keen  indeed,  would  seek  to  pry  beneath  the  surface  with 
which  the  world  is  quite  satisfied  ?  And  what  would  we 
not  pardon  to  old  people,  if  only  they  will  efface  them- 


A  Woman  of  Thirty  199 

selves  like  shadows,  and  consent  to  be  regarded  as 
memories  and  nothing  more  ! 

Indeed,  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  became  a  kind  of  example 
complacently  held  up  by  the  younger  generation  to 
fathers  of  families,  and  frequently  cited  to  mothers-in- 
law.  She  had  made  over  her  property  to  Moïna  in  her 
own  lifetime  ;  the  young  Countess's  happiness  was 
Ifnough  for  her,  she  only  lived  in  her  daughter.  If  some 
cautious  old  person  or  morose  uncle  here  and  there  con- 
demned the  course  with — c  Perhaps  Mme.  d'Aiglemont 
may  be  sorry  some  day  that  she  gave  up  her  fortune  to 
her  daughter  ;  she  may  be  sure  of  Moïna,  but  how  can 
she  be  equally  sure  of  her  son-in-law  ?  I — these  prophets 
were  cried  down  on  all  sides,  and  from  all  sides  a  chorus 
of  praise  went  up  for  Moïna. 

4  It  ought  to  be  said,  in  justice  to  Mme.  de  Saint- 
Héreen,  that  her  mother  cannot  feel  the  slightest 
difference,'  remarked  a  young  married  woman.  c  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont  is  admirably  well  housed.  She  has  a  car- 
riage at  her  disposal,  and  can  go  everywhere  just  as  she 
used  to  do  ' 

c  Except  to  the  Italiens,'  remarked  a  low  voice.  (This 
was  an  elderly  parasite,  one  of  those  persons  who  show 
their  independence — as  they  think — by  riddling  their 
friends  with  epigrams.)  '  Except  to  the  Italiens.  And 
if  the  dowager  cares  for  anything  on  this  earth  but  her 
daughter — it  is  music.  Such  a  good  performer  she  was 
in  her  time  !  But  the  Countess's  box  is  always  full  of 
young  butterflies,  and  the  Countess's  mother  would  be 
in  the  way  ->  the  young  lady  is  talked  about  already  as 
a  great  flirt.  So  the  poor  mother  never  goes  to  the 
Italiens.' 

4  Mme.  de  Saint-Héreen  has  delightful  "At  Homes" 
for  her  mother,'  said  a  rosebud.  c  All  Paris  goes  to 
her  salon.' 

4  And  no  one  pays  any  attention  to  the  Marquise,' 
returned  the  parasite. 


200 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


c  The  fact  is  that  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  is  never  alone, 
remarked  a  coxcomb,  siding  with  the  young  women. 

c  In  the  morning,'  the  old  observer  continued  in  a 
discreet  voice,  c  in  the  morning  dear  Moina  is  asleep. 
At  four  o'clock  dear  Moina  drives  in  the  Bois.  In  the 
evening  dear  Moina  goes  to  a  ball  or  to  the  Bouffes. — 
Still,  it  is  certainly  true  that  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  has 
the  privilege  of  seeing  her  dear  daughter  while  shêt 
dresses,  and  again  at  dinner,  if  dear  Mo'ina  happens  to 
dine  with  her  mother.  Not  a  week  ago,  sir,'  continued 
the  elderly  person,  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  shy 
tutor,  a  new  arrival  in  the  house,  c  not  a  week  ago,  I 
saw  the  poor  mother,  solitary  and  sad,  by  her  own  fire- 
side.— "  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  I  asked.  The  Marquise 
looked  up  smiling,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  she  had  been 
crying. — "  I  was  thinking  that  it  is  a  strange  thing  that 
I  should  be  left  alone  when  I  have  had  five  children," 
she  said,  "  but  that  is  our  destiny  !  And  besides,  I  am 
happy  when  I  know  that  Moina  is  enjoying  herself." — 
She  could  say  that  to  me,  for  I  knew  her  husband  when 
he  was  alive.  A  poor  stick  he  was,  and  uncommonly 
lucky  to  have  such  a  wife  ;  it  was  certainly  owing  to  her 
that  he  was  made  a  peer  of  France,  and  had  a  place  at 
Court  under  Charles  x.' 

Yet  such  mistaken  ideas  get  about  in  social  gossip, 
and  such  mischief  is  done  by  it,  that  the  historian  of 
manners  is  bound  to  exercise  his  discretion,  and  weigh 
the  assertions  so  recklessly  made.  After  all,  who  is  to 
say  that  either  mother  or  daughter  was  right  or  wrong. 
There  is  but  One  who  can  read  and  judge  their  hearts  ! 
And  how  often  does  He  wreak  His  vengeance  in  the 
family  circle,  using  throughout  all  time  children  as  his 
instruments  against  their  mothers,  and  fathers  against 
their  sons,  raising  up  peoples  against  kings,  and  princes 
against  peoples,  sowing  strife  and  division  everywhere  ? 
And  in  the  world  of  ideas,  are  not  old  opinions  and  feelings 
expelled  by  new  feelings  and  opinions,  much  as  withered 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


loi 


leaves  are  thrust  forth  by  the  young  leaf-buds  in  the 
spring  ? — all  in  obedience  to  the  immutable  Scheme  ; 
all  to  some  end  which  God  alone  knows.  Yet,  surely, 
all  things  proceed  to  Him,  or  rather,  to  Him  all  things 
return. 

Such  thoughts  of  religion,  the  natural  thoughts  of  age, 
floated  up  now  and  again  on  the  current  of  Mme. 
d'  Aiglemont's  thoughts  ;  they  were  always  dimly  present 
in  her  mind,  but  sometimes  they  shone  out  clearly, 
sometimes  they  were  carried  under,  like  flowers  tossed 
on  the  vexed  surface  of  a  stormy  sea. 

She  sat  on  the  garden-seat,  tired  with  walking,  ex- 
hausted with  much  thinking — with  the  long  thoughts 
in  which  a  whole  lifetime  rises  up  before  the  mind,  and 
is  spread  out  like  a  scroll  before  the  eyes  of  those  who 
feel  that  Death  is  near. 

If  a  poet  had  chanced  to  pass  along  the  boulevard,  he 
would  have  found  an  interesting  picture  in  the  face  of 
this  woman,  grown  old  before  her  time.  As  she  sat 
under  the  dotted  shadow  of  the  acacia,  the  shadow  the 
acacia  casts  at  noon,  a  thousand  thoughts  were  written 
for  all  the  world  to  see  on  her  features,  pale  and  cold 
even  in  the  hot,  bright  sunlight.  There  was  something 
sadder  than  the  sense  of  waning  life  in  that  expressive 
face,  some  trouble  that  went  deeper  than  the  weariness 
of  experience.  It  was  a  face  of  a  type  that  fixes  you 
in  a  moment  among  a  host  of  characterless  faces  that 
fail  to  draw  a  second  glance,  a  face  to  set  you  thinking. 
Among  a  thousand  pictures  in  a  gallery,  you  are  strongly 
impressed  by  the  sublime  anguish  on  the  face  of  some 
Madonna  of  Murillo's  ;  by  some  Beatrice  Cenci  in  which 
Guido's  art  portrays  the  most  touching  innocence  against 
a  background  of  horror  and  crime  ;  by  the  awe  and  majesty 
that  should  encircle  a  king,  caught  once  and  for  ever  by 
Velasquez  in  the  sombre  face  of  a  Philip  n.,  and  so  is  it 
with  some  living  human  faces  ;  they  are  tyrannous  pictures 
which  speak  to  you,  submit  you  to  searching  scrutiny. 


202 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


and  give  response  to  your  inmost  thoughts,  nay,  there 
are  faces  that  set  forth  a  whole  drama,  and  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont's  stony  face  was  one  of  these  awful  tragedies, 
one  of  such  faces  as  Dante  Alighieri  saw  by  thousands 
in  his  vision. 

For  the  little  season  that  a  woman's  beauty  is  in 
flower  it  serves  her  admirably  well  in  the  dissimula- 
tion to  which  her  natural  weakness  and  our  social 
laws  condemn  her.  A  young  face  and  rich  colour, 
and  eyes  that  glow  with  light,  a  gracious  maze  of  such 
subtle,  manifold  lines  and  curves,  flawless  and  perfectly 
traced,  is  a  screen  that  hides  everything  that  stirs  the 
woman  within.  A  flush  tells  nothing,  it  only  heightens 
the  colouring  so  brilliant  already  ;  all  the  fires  that  burn 
within  can  add  little  light  to  the  flame  of  life  in  eyes 
which  only  seem  the  brighter  for  the  flash  of  a  passing 
pain.  Nothing  is  so  discreet  as  a  young  face,  for 
nothing  is  less  mobile  ;  it  has  the  serenity,  the  surface 
smoothness,  and  the  freshness  of  a  lake.  There  is  no 
character  in  women's  faces  before  the  age  of  thirty. 
The  painter  discovers  nothing  there  but  pink  and  white, 
and  the  smile  and  expression  that  repeat  the  same 
thought  in  the  same  way — a  thought  of  youth  and  love 
that  goes  no  further  than  youth  and  love.  But  the  face 
of  an  old  woman  has  expressed  all  that  lay  in  her  nature  ; 
passion  has  carved  lines  on  her  features  ;  love  and  wife- 
hood and  motherhood,  and  extremes  of  joy  and  anguish, 
have  wrung  them,  and  left  their  traces  in  a  thousand 
wrinkles,  all  of  which  speak  a  language  of  their  own  ; 
then  is  it  that  a  woman's  face  becomes  sublime  in  its 
horror,  beautiful  in  its  melancholy,  grand  in  its  calm. 
If  it  is  permissible  to  carry  the  strange  metaphor 
still  further,  it  might  be  said  that  in  the  dried-up  lake 
you  can  see  the  traces  of  all  the  torrents  that  once 
poured  into  it  and  made  it  what  it  is.  An  old  face  is 
nothing  to  the  frivolous  world  ;  the  frivolous  world  is 
shocked  by  the  sight  of  the  destruction  of  such  come- 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


liness  as  it  can  understand  ;  a  commonplace  artist  sees 
nothing  there.  An  old  face  is  the  province  of  the 
poets  among  poets  of  those  who  can  recognise  that 
something  which  is  called  Beauty,  apart  from  all  the 
conventions  underlying  so  many  superstitions  in  art  and 
taste. 

Though  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  wore  a  fashionable  bonnet, 
it  was  easy  to  see  that  her  once  black  hair  had  been 
bleached  by  cruel  sorrows  ;  yet  her  good  taste  and  the 
gracious  acquired  instincts  of  a  woman  of  fashion  could 
be  seen  in  the  way  she  wore  it,  divided  into  two 
bandeaux^  following  the  outlines  of  a  forehead  that  still 
retained  some  traces  of  former  dazzling  beauty,  worn 
and  lined  though  it  was.  The  contours  of  her  face,  the 
regularity  of  her  features,  gave  some  idea,  faint  in  truth, 
of  that  beauty  of  which  surely  she  had  once  been  proud  ; 
but  those  traces  spoke  still  more  plainly  of  the  anguish 
which  had  laid  it  waste,  of  sharp  pain  that  had  withered 
the  temples,  and  made  those  hollows  in  her  cheeks,  and  em- 
purpled the  eyelids,  and  robbed  them  of  their  lashes,  and 
the  eyes  of  their  charm.  She  was  in  every  way  so  noise- 
less ;  she  moved  with  a  slow,  self-contained  gravity  that 
showed  itself  in  her  whole  bearing,  and  struck  a  certain 
awe  into  others.  Her  diffident  manner  had  changed  to 
positive  shyness,  due  apparently  to  a  habit  now  of  some 
years'  growth,  of  effacing  herself  in  her  daughter's 
presence.  She  spoke  very  seldom,  and  in  the  low  tones 
used  by  those  who  perforce  must  live  within  themselves 
a  life  of  reflection  and  concentration.  This  demeanour 
led  others  to  regard  her  with  an  indefinable  feeling 
which  was  neither  awe  nor  compassion,  but  a  mysterious 
blending  of  the  many  ideas  awakened  in  us  by  compassion 
and  awe.  Finally,  there  was  something  in  her  wrinkles, 
in  the  lines  of  her  face,  in  the  look  of  pain  in  those  wan 
eyes  of  hers,  that  bore  eloquent  testimony  to  tears  that 
never  had  fallen,  tears  that  had  been  absorbed  by  her 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


heart.  Unhappy  creatures,  accustomed  to  raise  their 
eyes  to  heaven,  in  mute  appeal  against  the  bitterness  of 
their  lot,  would  have  seen  at  once  from  her  eyes  that 
she  was  broken  in  to  the  cruel  discipline  of  ceaseless 
prayer,  would  have  discerned  the  almost  imperceptible 
symptoms  of  the  secret  bruises  which  destroy  all  the 
flowers  of  the  soul,  even  the  sentiment  of  motherhood. 

Painters  have  colours  for  these  portraits,  but  words, 
and  the  mental  images  called  up  by  words,  fail  to  repro- 
duce such  impressions  faithfully  ;  there  are  mysterious 
signs  and  tokens  in  the  tones  of  the  colouring  and  in 
the  look  of  human  faces,  which  the  mind  only  seizes 
through  the  sense  of  sight  ;  and  the  poet  is  fain  to  record 
the  tale  of  the  events  which  wrought  the  havoc  to 
make  their  terrible  ravages  understood. 

The  face  spoke  of  cold  and  steady  storm,  an  inward 
conflict  between  a  mother's  longsufFering  and  the 
limitations  of  our  nature,  for  our  human  affections 
are  bounded  by  our  humanity,  and  the  infinite  has  no 
place  in  finite  creatures.  Sorrow  endured  in  silence  had 
at  last  produced  an  indefinable  morbid  something  in  this 
woman.  Doubtless  mental  anguish  had  reacted  on  the 
physical  frame,  and  some  disease,  perhaps  an  aneurism, 
was  undermining  Julie's  life.  Deep-seated  grief  lies  to 
all  appearance  very  quietly  in  the  depths  where  it  is 
conceived,  yet,  so  still  and  apparently  dormant  as  it  is,  it 
ceaselessly  corrodes  the  soul,  like  the  terrible  acid  which 
eats  away  crystal. 

Two  tears  made  their  way  down  the  Marquise's 
cheeks  ;  she  rose  to  her  feet  as  if  some  thought  more 
poignant  than  any  that  preceded  it  had  cut  her  to  the 
quick.  She  had  doubtless  come  to  a  conclusion  as  to 
Moi'na's  future;  and  now,  foreseeing  clearly  all  the 
troubles  in  store  for  her  child,  the  sorrows  of  her  own 
unhappy  life  had  begun  to  weigh  once  more  upon  her. 
The  key  of  her  position  must  be  sought  in  her  daughter's 
situation. 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


205 


The  Comte  de  Saint-Héreen  had  been  away  for  nearly 
six  months  on  a  political  mission.  The  Countess,  whether 
from  sheer  giddiness,  or  in  obedience  to  the  countless 
instincts  of  woman's  coquetry,  or  to  essay  its  power — 
with  all  the  vanity  of  a  frivolous  fine  lady,  all  the  cap- 
ricious waywardness  of  a  child — was  amusing  herself, 
during  her  husband's  absence,  by  playing  with  the  pas- 
sion of  a  clever  but  heartless  man,  distracted  (so  he  said) 
with  love,  the  love  that  combines  readily  with  every 
petty  social  ambition  of  a  self-conceited  coxcomb.  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont,  whose  long  experience  had  given  her  a 
knowledge  of  life,  and  taught  her  to  judge  of  men  and 
to  dread  the  world,  watched  the  course  of  this  flirtation, 
and  saw  that  it  could  only  end  in  one  way,  if  her 
daughter  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  an  utterly  unscrupu- 
lous intriguer.  How  could  it  be  other  than  a  terrible 
thought  for  her  that  her  daughter  listened  willingly  to 
this  roue  ?  Her  darling  stood  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice, 
she  felt  horribly  sure  of  it,  yet  dared  not  hold  her  back. 
She  was  afraid  of  the  Countess.  She  knew  too  that 
Moïna  would  not  listen  to  her  wise  warnings  ;  she  knew 
that  she  had  no  influence  over  that  nature — iron  for  her, 
silken-soft  for  all  others.  Her  mother's  tenderness 
might  have  led  her  to  sympathise  with  the  troubles  of  a 
passion  called  forth  by  the  nobler  qualities  of  a  lover,  but 
this  was  no  passion — it  was  coquetry,  and  the  Marquise 
despised  Alfred  de  Vandenesse,  knowing  that  he  had 
entered  upon  this  flirtation  with  Moïna  as  if  it  were  a 
game  of  chess. 

But  if  Alfred  de  Vandenesse  made  her  shudder  with 
disgust,  she  was  obliged — unhappy  mother  ! — to  conceal 
the  strongest  reason  for  her  loathing  in  the  deepest 
recesses  of  her  heart.  She  was  on  terms  of  intimate 
friendship  with  the  Marquis  de  Vandenesse,  the  young 
man's  father  ;  and  this  friendship,  a  respectable  one  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  excused  the  son's  constant  presence 
in  the  house,  he  professing  an  old  attachment,  dating 


206 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


from  childhood,  for  Mme.  de  Saint-Héreen.  More 
than  this,  in  vain  did  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  nerve  herself 
to  come  between  Moïna  and  Alfred  de  Vandenesse  with 
a  terrible  word,  knowing  beforehand  that  she  should 
not  succeed  ;  knowing  that  the  strong  reason  which  ought 
to  separate  them  would  carry  no  weight  ;  that  she  should 
humiliate  herself  vainly  in  her  daughter's  eyes.  Alfred 
was  too  corrupt  ;  Moïna  too  clever  to  believe  the 
revelation  ;  the  young  Countess  would  turn  it  off  and 
treat  it  as  a  piece  of  maternal  strategy.  Mme.  d' Aigle- 
mont  had  built  her  prison  walls  with  her  own  hands  ;  she 
had  immured  herself  only  to  see  Moïna's  happiness  ruined 
thence  before  she  died  ;  she  was  to  look  on  helplessly  at 
the  ruin  of  the  young  life  which  had  been  her  pride  and 
joy  and  comfort,  a  life  a  thousand  times  dearer  to  her 
than  her  own.  What  words  can  describe  anguish  so 
hideous  beyond  belief,  such  unfathomed  depths  of  pain  ? 

She  waited  for  Moïna  to  rise,  with  the  impatience  and 
sickening  dread  of  a  doomed  man,  who  longs  to  have 
done  with  life,  and  turns  cold  at  the  thought  of  the 
headsman.  She  had  braced  herself  for  a  last  effort,  but 
perhaps  the  prospect  of  the  certain  failure  of  the  attempt 
was  less  dreadful  to  her  than  the  fear  of  receiving  yet 
again  one  of  those  thrusts  that  went  to  her  very  heart — 
before  that  fear  her  courage  ebbed  away.  Her  mother's 
love  had  come  to  this.  To  love  her  child,  to  be  afraid 
of  her,  to  shrink  from  the  thought  of  the  stab,  yet  to  go 
forward.  So  great  is  a  mother's  affection  in  a  loving 
nature,  that  before  it  can  fade  away  into  indifference  the 
mother  herself  must  die  or  find  support  in  some  great 
power  without  her,  in  religion  or  another  love.  Since 
the  Marquise  rose  that  morning,  her  fatal  memory  had 
called  up  before  her  some  of  those  things,  so  slight  to  all 
appearance,  that  make  landmarks  in  a  life.  Sometimes, 
indeed,  a  whole  tragedy  grows  out  of  a  single  gesture  -, 
the  tone  in  which  a  few  words  were  spoken  rends  a 
whole  life  in  two  ;  a  glance  into  indifferent  eyes  is  the 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


207 


deathblow  of  the  gladdest  love;  and,  unhappily,  such 
gestures  and  such  words  were  only  too  familiar  to 
Mme.  d'Aigiemont — she  had  met  so  many  glances  that 
wound  the  soul.  No,  there  was  nothing  in  those  memo- 
ries to  bid  her  hope.  On  the  contrary,  everything  went 
to  show  that  Alfred  had  destroyed  her  hold  on  her 
daughter's  heart,  that  the  thought  of  her  was  now 
associated  with  duty — not  with  gladness.  In  ways  in- 
numerable, in  things  that  were  mere  trifles  in  themselves, 
the  Countess's  detestable  conduct  rose  up  before  her 
mother  ;  and  the  Marquise,  it  may  be,  looked  on  Moïna's 
undutifulness  as  a  punishment,  and  found  excuses  for  her 
daughter  in  the  will  of  Heaven,  that  so  she  still  might 
adore  the  hand  that  smote  her. 

All  these  things  passed  through  her  memory  that 
morning,  and  each  recollection  wounded  her  afresh  so 
sorely,  that  with  a  very  little  additional  pain  her  brim- 
ming cup  of  bitterness  must  have  overflowed.  A  cold 
look  might  kill  her. 

The  little  details  of  domestic  life  are  difficult  to  paint  ; 
but  one  or  two  perhaps  will  suffice  to  give  an  idea  of  the 
rest. 

The  Marquise  d'Aigiemont,  for  instance,  had  grown 
rather  deaf,  but  she  could  never  induce  Moïna  to  raise 
her  voice  for  her.  Once,  with  the  naïveté  of  suffering, 
she  had  begged  Moïna  to  repeat  some  remark  which  she 
had  failed  to  catch,  and  Moïna  obeyed,  but  with  so  bad 
a  grace,  that  Mme.  d'Aigiemont  had  never  permitted 
herself  to  make  her  modest  request  again.  Ever  since 
that  day  when  Moïna  was  talking  or  retailing  a  piece  of 
news,  her  mother  was  careful  to  come  near  to  listen  ; 
but  this  infirmity  of  deafness  appeared  to  put  the  Coun- 
tess out  of  patience,  and  she  would  grumble  thoughtlessly 
about  it.  This  instance  is  one  from  among  very  many 
that  must  have  gone  to  the  mother's  heart  ;  and  yet 
nearly  all  of  them  might  have  escaped  a  close  observer, 
they  consisted  in  faint  shades  of  manner  invisible  to  any 


2o8 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


but  a  woman's  eyes.  Take  another  example.  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont  happened  to  say  one  day  that  the  Princesse 
de  Cadignan  had  called  upon  her.  i  Did  she  come  to 
see  you  !  '  Moïna  exclaimed.  That  was  all  ;  but  the 
Countess's  voice  and  manner  expressed  surprise  and  well- 
bred  contempt  in  semitones.  Any  heart,  still  young 
and  sensitive,  might  well  have  applauded  the  philanthropy 
of  savage  tribes  who  kill  off  their  old  people  when  they 
grow  too  feeble  to  cling  to  a  strongly  shaken  bough. 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont  rose  smiling,  and  went  away  to 
weep  alone. 

Well-bred  people,  and  women  especially,  only  betray 
their  feelings  by  imperceptible  touches  ;  but  those  who 
can  look  back  over  their  own  experience  on  such  bruises  as 
this  mother's  heart  received,  know  also  how  the  heart- 
strings vibrate  to  these  light  touches.  Overcome  by 
her  memories,  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  recollected  one  of 
those  microscopically  small  things,  so  stinging  and  so 
painful  was  it  that  never  till  this  moment  had  she  felt 
all  the  heartless  contempt  that  lurked  beneath  smiles. 

At  the  sound  of  shutters  thrown  back  at  her 
daughter's  windows,  she  dried  her  tears,  and  hastened 
up  the  pathway  by  the  railings.  As  she  went,  it  struck 
her  that  the  gardener  had  been  unusually  careful  to  rake 
the  sand  along  the  walk  which  had  been  neglected  for 
some  little  time.  As  she  stood  under  her  daughter's 
windows,  the  shutters  were  hastily  closed. 

c  Moïna,  is  it  you  ?  '  she  asked. 

No  answer. 

The  Marquise  went  on  into  the  house. 

4  Mme.  la  Comtesse  is  in  the  little  drawing-room,3 
said  the  maid,  when  the  Marquise  asked  whether  Mme. 
de  Saint-Héreen  had  finished  dressing. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  hurried  to  the  little  drawing- 
room  ;  her  heart  was  too  full,  her  brain  too  busy  to 
notice  matters  so  slight  ;  but  there  on  a  sofa  sat  the 
Countess  in  her  loose  morning-gown,  her  hair  in  dis- 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


209 


order  under  the  cap  tossed  carelessly  on  her  head,  her 
feet  thrust  into  slippers.  The  key  of  her  bedroom 
hung  at  her  girdle.  Her  face,  aglow  with  colour,  bore 
traces  of  almost  stormy  thought. 

c  What  makes  people  come  in  !  '  she  cried  crossly. 
c  Oh  !  it  is  you,  mother,'  she  interrupted  herself,  with  a 
preoccupied  look. 

c  Yes,  child  ;  it  is  your  mother  ' 

Something  in  her  tone  turned  those  words  into  an 
outpouring  of  the  heart,  the  cry  of  some  deep  inward 
feeling,  only  to  be  described  by  the  word  choly/  So 
thoroughly  in  truth  had  she  rehabilitated  the  sacred 
character  of  a  mother,  that  her  daughter  was  im- 
pressed, and  turned  towards  her,  with  something  of  awe, 
uneasiness,  and  remorse  in  her  manner.  The  room  was 
the  furthest  of  a  suite,  and  safe  from  indiscreet  intru- 
sion, for  no  one  could  enter  it  without  giving  warning 
of  approach  through  the  previous  apartments.  The 
Marquise  closed  the  door. 

i  It  is  my  duty,  my  child,  to  warn  you  in  one  of  the 
most  serious  crises  in  the  lives  of  us  women  ;  you  have 
perhaps  reached  it  unconsciously,  and  I  am  come  to 
speak  to  you  as  a  friend  rather  than  as  a  mother.  When 
you  married,  you  acquired  freedom  of  action  ;  you  are 
only  accountable  to  your  husband  now  ;  but  I  asserted 
my  authority  so  little  (perhaps  I  was  wrong),  that  I  think 
I  have  a  right  to  expect  you  to  listen  to  me,  for  once  at 
least,  in  a  critical  position  when  you  must  need  counsel. 
Bear  in  mind,  Moïna,  that  you  are  married  to  a  man  of 
high  ability,  a  man  of  whom  you  may  well  be  proud,  a 
man  who  ' 

c  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,  mother  !  '  Moïna 
broke  in  pettishly.  4 1  am  to  be  lectured  about 
Alfred  ' 

c  Moïna,'  the  Marquise  said  gravely,  as  she  struggled 
with  her  tears,  'you  would  not  guess  at  once  if  you  did 
not  feel  * 


o 


2IO 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


i  What  ?  9  asked  Moïna,  almost  haughtily.  c  Why, 
really,  mother  ' 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  summoned  up  all  her  strength. 
'Moïna,'  she  said,  cyou  must  attend  carefully  to  this 
that  I  ought  to  tell  you  ' 

c  I  am  attending,'  returned  the  Countess,  folding  her 
arms,  and  affecting  insolent  submission.  c  Permit  me, 
mother,  to  ring  for  Pauline,'  she  added  with  incredible 
self-possession  ;  '  I  will  send  her  away  first.' 

She  rang  the  bell. 

4  My  dear  child,  Pauline  cannot  possibly  hear  9 

*  Mamma,'  interrupted  the  Countess,  with  a  gravity 
which  must  have  struck  her  mother  as  something 
unusual,  c  I  must  ' 

She  stopped  short,  for  the  woman  was  in  the  room. 

*  Pauline,  go  yourself  to  Baudran's,  and  ask  why  my 
hat  has  not  yet  been  sent/ 

Then  the  Countess  reseated  herself  and  scrutinised 
her  mother.  The  Marquise,  with  a  swelling  heart  and 
dry  eyes,  in  painful  agitation,  which  none  but  a  mother 
can  fully  understand,  began  to  open  Moïna's  eyes  to  the 
risk  that  she  was  running.  But  either  the  Countess 
felt  hurt  and  indignant  at  her  mother's  suspicions  of  a 
son  of  the  Marquis  de  Vandenesse,  or  she  was  seized 
with  a  sudden  fit  of  inexplicable  levity  caused  by 
the  inexperience  of  youth.  She  took  advantage  of  a 
pause. 

c  Mamma,  I  thought  you  were  only  jealous  of  the 
father  '  she  said,  with  a  forced  laugh. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  shut  her  eyes  and  bent  her  head  at 
the  words,  with  a  very  faint,  almost  inaudible  sigh.  She 
looked  up  and  out  into  space,  as  if  she  felt  the  common 
overmastering  impulse  to  appeal  to  God  at  the  great 
crises  of  our  lives  ;  then  she  looked  at  her  daughter,  and 
her  eyes  were  full  of  awful  majesty  and  the  expression  of 
profound  sorrow. 

*  My  child,'  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  hardly  recog- 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


211 


nisable,  'you  have  been  less  merciful  to  your  mother 
than  he  against  whom  she  sinned  ;  less  merciful  than 
perhaps  God  Himself  will  be  !  ' 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  rose  ;  at  the  door  she  turned  ; 
but  she  saw  nothing  but  surprise  in  her  daughter's  face. 
She  went  out.  Scarcely  had  she  reached  the  garden 
when  her  strength  failed  her.  There  was  a  violent  pain 
at  her  heart,  and  she  sank  down  on  a  bench.  As  her 
eyes  wandered  over  the  path,  she  saw  fresh  marks  on  the 
path,  a  man's  footprints  were  distinctly  recognisable.  It 
was  too  late,  then,  beyond  a  doubt.  Now  she  began  to 
understand  the  reason  for  that  order  given  to  Pauline, 
and  with  these  torturing  thoughts  came  a  revelation 
more  hateful  than  any  that  had  gone  before  it.  She  drew 
her  own  inferences — the  son  of  the  Marquis  de  Vande- 
nesse  had  destroyed  all  feeling  of  respect  for  her  in  her 
daughter's  mind.  The  physical  pain  grew  worse  ;  by 
degrees  she  lost  consciousness,  and  sat  like  one  asleep 
upon  the  garden-seat. 

The  Countess  de  Saint-Héreen,  left  to  herself,  thought 
that  her  mother  had  given  her  a  somewhat  shrewd 
home-thrust,  but  a  kiss  and  a  few  attentions  that  evening 
would  make  all  right  again. 

A  shrill  cry  came  from  the  garden.  She  leaned  care- 
lessly out,  as  Pauline,  not  yet  departed  on  her  errand, 
called  out  for  help,  holding  the  Marquise  in  her  arms. 

c  Do  not  frighten  my  daughter  ! 9  those  were  the  last 
words  the  mother  uttered. 

Moïna  saw  them  carry  in  a  pale  and  lifeless  form  that 
struggled  for  breath,  and  arms  moving  restlessly  as  in 
protest  or  effort  to  speak  ;  and  overcome  by  the  sight, 
Moïna  followed  in  silence,  and  helped  to  undress  her 
mother  and  lay  her  on  her  bed.  The  burden  of  her 
fault  was  greater  than  she  could  bear.  In  that  supreme 
hour  she  learned  to  know  her  mother — too  late,  she 
could  make  no  reparation  now.  She  would  have  them 
leave  her  alone  with  her  mother  ;  and  when  there  was  no 


212 


A  Woman  of  Thirty 


one  else  in  the  room,  when  she  felt  that  the  hand  which 
had  always  been  so  tender  for  her  was  now  grown  cold 
to  her  touch,  she  broke  out  into  weeping.  Her  tears 
aroused  the  Marquise  ;  she  could  still  look  at  her  darling 
Moïna  ;  and  at  the  sound  of  sobbing,  that  seemed  as  if 
it  must  rend  the  delicate,  dishevelled  breast,  could  smile 
back  at  her  daughter.  That  smile  taught  the  unnatural 
child  that  forgiveness  is  always  to  be  found  in  the  great 
deep  of  a  mother's  heart. 

Servants  on  horseback  had  been  dispatched  at  once  for 
the  physician  and  surgeon  and  for  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's 
grand-children.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  the  younger  and 
her  little  sons  arrived  with  the  medical  men,  a  sufficiently 
impressive,  silent,  and  anxious  little  group,  which  the 
servants  of  the  house  came  to  join.  The  young 
Marquise,  hearing  no  sound,  tapped  gently  at  the  door. 
That  signal,  doubtless,  roused  Moïna  from  her  grief,  for 
she  flung  open  the  doors  and  stood  before  them.  No 
words  could  have  spoken  more  plainly  than  that  dis- 
hevelled figure  looking  out  with  haggard  eyes  upon  the 
assembled  family.  Before  that  living  picture  of  Remorse, 
the  rest  were  dumb.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the 
Marquise's  feet  were  stretched  out  stark  and  stiff  with 
the  agony  of  death  ;  and  Moïna,  leaning  against  the  door- 
frame, looking  in  their  faces,  spoke  in  a  hollow  voice — 

4 1  have  lost  my  mother  !  ' 

Paris,  1828- 1844. 


A  FORSAKEN  LADY 


To  Her  Grace  the  Duchesse  cP  Jbr antes , 
from  her  devoted  servant^ 

Honoré  de  Balzac 

Paris,  ^August  1835 

In  the  early  spring  of  1822,  the  Paris  doctors  sent  to 
Lower  Normandy  a  young  man  just  recovering  from  an 
inflammatory  complaint,  brought  on  by  overstudy,  or 
perhaps  by  excess  of  some  other  kind.  His  con- 
valescence demanded  complete  rest,  a  light  diet,  bracing 
air,  and  freedom  from  excitement  of  every  kind,  and  the 
fat  lands  of  Bessin  seemed  to  offer  all  these  conditions  of 
recovery.  To  Bayeux,  a  picturesque  place  about  six 
miles  from  the  sea,  the  patient  therefore  betook  himself, 
and  was  received  with  the  cordiality  characteristic  of 
relatives  who  lead  very  retired  lives,  and  regard  a  new 
arrival  as  a  godsend. 

All  little  towns  are  alike,  save  tor  a  few  local  customs. 
When  M.  le  Baron  Gaston  de  Nueil,  the  young  Parisian 
in  question,  had  spent  two  or  three  evenings  in  his 
cousin's  house,  or  with  the  friends  who  made  up  Mme. 
de  Sainte-Sevère's  circle,  he  very  soon  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  persons  whom  this  exclusive  society 
considered  to  be  f  the  whole  town.'  Gaston  de  Nueil 
recognised  in  them  the  invariable  stock  characters  which 
every  observer  finds  in  every  one  of  the  many  capitals 


2i4  A  Forsaken  Lady 


of  the  little  States  which  made  up  the  France  of  an  older 
day. 

First  of  all  comes  the  family  whose  claims  to  nobility 
are  regarded  as  incontestable,  and  of  the  highest  antiquity 
in  the  department,  though  no  one  has  so  much  as  heard 
of  them  a  bare  fifty  leagues  away.  This  species  of 
royal  family  on  a  small  scale  is  distantly,  but  unmistak- 
ably, connected  with  the  Navarreins  and  the  Grandlieu 
family,  and  related  to  the  Cadignans,  and  the  Blamont- 
Chauvrys.  The  head  of  the  illustrious  house  is  invari- 
ably a  determined  sportsman.  He  has  no  manners,  crushes 
everybody  else  with  his  nominal  superiority,  tolerates 
the  sub-prefect  much  as  he  submits  to  the  taxes,  and 
declines  to  acknowledge  any  of  the  novel  powers  created 
by  the  nineteenth  century,  pointing  out  to  you  as  a 
political  monstrosity  the  fact  that  the  prime  minister  is 
a  man  of  no  birth.  His  wife  takes  a  decided  tone,  and 
talks  in  a  loud  voice.  She  has  had  adorers  in  her  time, 
but  takes  the  sacrament  regularly  at  Easter.  She  brings 
up  her  daughters  badly,  and  is  of  the  opinion  that  they 
will  always  be  rich  enough  with  their  name. 

Neither  husband  nor  wife  has  the  remotest  idea  of 
modern  luxury.  They  retain  a  livery  only  seen  else- 
where on  the  stage,  and  cling  to  old  fashions  in  plate, 
furniture,  and  equipages,  as  in  language  and  manner  of 
life.  This  is  a  kind  of  ancient  state,  moreover,  that  suits 
passably  well  with  provincial  thrift.  The  good  folk 
are,  in  fact,  the  lords  of  the  manor  of  a  bygone  age, 
minus  the  quitrents  and  heriots,  the  pack  of  hounds  and 
the  laced  coats  ;  full  of  honour  among  themselves,  and 
one  and  all  loyally  devoted  to  princes  whom  they  only 
see  at  a  distance.  The  historical  house  incognito  is  as 
quaint  a  survival  as  a  piece  of  ancient  tapestry.  Vege- 
tating somewhere  among  them  there  is  sure  to  be  an 
uncle  or  a  brother,  a  lieutenant-general,  an  old  courtier 
of  the  King's,  who  wears  the  red  ribbon  of  the 
order  of  Saint-Louis,  and  went  to  Hanover  with  the 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


215 


Maréchal  de  Richelieu,  and  here  you  find  him  like  a 
stray  leaf  out  of  some  old  pamphlet  of  the  time  of  Louis 
Quinze. 

This  fossil  greatness  finds  a  rival  in  another  house, 
wealthier,  though  of  less  ancient  lineage.  Husband  and 
wife  spend  a  couple  of  months  of  every  winter  in  Paris, 
bringing  back  with  them  its  frivolous  tone  and  short- 
lived contemporary  crazes.  Madame  is  a  woman  of 
fashion,  though  she  looks  rather  conscious  of  her  clothes, 
and  is  always  behind  the  mode.  She  scoffs,  however,  at 
the  ignorance  affected  by  her  neighbours.  Her  plate  is 
of  modern  fashion  ;  she  has  c  grooms,'  negroes,  a  valet^de- 
chambre,  and  what  not.  Her  oldest  son  drives  a 
tilbury,  and  does  nothing  (the  estate  is  entailed  upon 
him),  his  younger  brother  is  auditor  to  a  Council  of 
State.  The  father  is  well  posted  up  in  ofiîcial  scandals, 
and  tells  you  anecdotes  of  Louis  xviii.  and  Mme.  du 
Cayla.  He  invests  his  money  in  the  five  per  cents.,  and 
is  careful  to  avoid  the  topic  of  cider,  but  has  been 
known  occasionally  to  fall  a  victim  to  the  craze  for 
rectifying  the  conjectural  sums-total  of  the  various 
fortunes  of  the  department.  He  is  a  member  of  the 
Departmental  Council,  has  his  clothes  from  Paris,  and 
wears  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour.  In  short,  he 
is  a  country  gentleman  who  has  fully  grasped  the 
significance  of  the  Restoration,  and  is  coining  money  at 
the  Chamber,  but  his  Royalism  is  less  pure  than  that  of 
the  rival  house  •>  he  takes  the  Gazette  and  the  Débats^ 
the  other  family  only  read  the  Quotidienne. 

His  lordship  the  Bishop,  a  sometime  Vicar- General, 
fluctuates  between  the  two  powers,  who  pay  him  the 
respect  due  to  religion,  but  at  times  they  bring  home 
to  him  the  moral  appended  by  the  worthy  Lafontaine  to 
the  fable  of  the  Ass  laden  with  Relics.  The  good  man's 
origin  is  distinctly  plebeian. 

Then  come  stars  of  the  second  magnitude,  men  of 
family  with  ten  or  twelve  hundred  livres  a  year,  captains 


2i6  A  Forsaken  Lady 


in  the  navy  or  cavalry  regiments,  or  nothing  at  all. 
Out  on  the  roads,  on  horseback,  they  rank  halfway 
between  the  curé  bearing  the  sacraments  and  the  tax 
collector  on  his  rounds.  Pretty  nearly  all  of  them  have 
been  in  the  Pages  or  in  the  Household  Troops,  and  now 
are  peaceably  ending  their  days  in  a  faisance-valoir^ 
more  interested  in  felling  timber  and  the  cider  prospects 
than  in  the  Monarchy. 

Still  they  talk  of  the  Charter  and  the  Liberals  while 
the  cards  are  making,  or  over  a  game  at  backgammon, 
when  they  have  exhausted  the  usual  stock  topic  of  dots^ 
and  have  married  everybody  off  according  to  the  genea- 
logies which  they  all  know  by  heart.  Their  women- 
kind  are  haughty  dames,  who  assume  the  airs  of  Court 
ladies  in  their  basket  chaises.  They  huddle  themselves 
up  in  shawls  and  caps  by  way  of  full  dress  ;  and  twice 
a  year,  after  ripe  deliberation,  have  a  new  bonnet  from 
Paris,  brought  as  opportunity  offers.  Exemplary  wives 
are  they  for  the  most  part,  and  garrulous. 

These  are  the  principal  elements  of  aristocratic 
gentility,  with  a  few  outlying  old  maids  of  good  family, 
spinsters  who  have  solved  the  problem  :  given  a  human 
being,  to  remain  absolutely  stationary.  They  might  be 
sealed  up  in  the  houses  where  you  see  them  ->  their 
faces  and  their  dresses  are  literally  part  of  the  fixtures 
of  the  town,  and  the  province  in  which  they  dwell. 
They  are  its  tradition,  its  memory,  its  quintessence,  the 
genius  loci  incarnate.  There  is  something  frigid  and 
monumental  about  these  ladies  ;  they  know  exactly 
when  to  laugh  and  when  to  shake  their  heads,  and  every 
now  and  then  give  out  some  utterance  which  passes 
current  as  a  witticism. 

A  few  rich  townspeople  have  crept  into  the  miniature 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  thanks  to  their  money  or 
their  aristocratic  leanings.  But  despite  their  forty 
years,  the  circle  still  say  of  them,  c  Young  So-and-so  has 
sound  opinions,'  and  of  such  do  they  make  deputies.  As 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


217 


a  rule,  the  elderly  spinsters  are  their  patronesses,  not 
without  comment. 

Finally,  in  this  exclusive  little  set  include  two  or 
three  ecclesiatics,  admitted  for  the  sake  of  their  cloth,  or 
for  their  wit  ;  for  these  great  nobles  find  their  own  society 
rather  dull,  and  introduce  the  bourgeois  element  into 
their  drawing-rooms,  as  a  baker  puts  leaven  into  his 
dough. 

The  sum- total  contained  by  all  heads  put  together 
consists  of  a  certain  quantity  of  antiquated  notions  ;  a 
few  new  reflections  brewed  in  company  of  an  evening 
being  added  from  time  to  time  to  the  common  stock. 
Like  sea-water  in  a  little  creek,  the  phrases  which  repre- 
sent these  ideas  surge  up  daily,  punctually  obeying  the 
tidal  laws  of  conversation  in  their  flow  and  ebb; 
you  hear  the  hollow  echo  of  yesterday,  to-day,  to- 
morrow, a  year  hence,  and  for  evermore.  On  all  things 
here  below  they  pass  immutable  judgments,  which  go  to 
make  up  a  body  of  tradition  into  which  no  power  of 
mortal  man  can  infuse  one  drop  of  wit  or  sense.  The 
lives  of  these  persons  revolve  with  the  regularity  of 
clockwork  in  an  orbit  of  use  and  wont  which  admits  of 
no  more  deviation  or  change  than  their  opinions  on 
matters  religious,  political,  moral,  or  literary. 

If  a  stranger  is  admitted  to  the  cénacle^  every  member 
of  it  in  turn  will  say  (not  without  a  trace  of  irony),  c  You 
will  not  find  the  brilliancy  of  your  Parisian  society  here,' 
and  proceed  forthwith  to  criticise  the  life  led  by  his 
neighbours,  as  if  he  himself  were  an  exception  who  had 
striven,  and  vainly  striven,  to  enlighten  the  rest.  But 
any  stranger  so  ill  advised  as  to  concur  in  any  of  their 
freely  expressed  criticism  of  each  other,  is  pronounced 
at  once  to  be  an  ill-natured  person,  a  heathen,  an 
outlaw,  a  reprobate  Parisian  6  as  Parisians  mostly  are.' 

Before  Gaston  de  Nueil  made  his  appearance  in  this 
little  world  of  strictly  observed  etiquette,  where  every 
detail  of  life  is  an  integrant  part  of  a  whole,  and  every- 


218 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


thing  is  known  ;  where  the  values  of  personalty  and  real 
estate  are  quoted  like  stocks  on  the  last  sheet  of  the 
newspaper — before  his  arrival  he  had  been  weighed  in 
the  unerring  scales  of  Bayeusaine  judgment. 

His  cousin,  Mme.  de  Sainte-Sevère,  had  already  given 
out  the  amount  of  his  fortune,  and  the  sum  of  his  expec- 
tations, had  produced  the  family  tree,  and  expatiated 
on  the  talents,  breeding,  and  modesty  of  this  particular 
branch.  So  he  received  the  precise  amount  of  attention 
to  which  he  was  entitled  ;  he  was  accepted  as  a  worthy 
scion  of  a  good  stock  ;  and,  for  he  was  but  twenty-three, 
was  made  welcome  without  ceremony,  though  certain 
young  ladies  and  mothers  of  daughters  looked  not  un- 
kindly upon  him. 

He  had  an  income  of  eighteen  thousand  livres  from 
land  in  the  valley  of  the  Auge  ;  and  sooner  or  later  his 
father,  as  in  duty  bound,  would  leave  him  the  chateau 
of  Manerville,  with  the  lands  thereunto  belonging.  As 
for  his  education,  political  career,  personal  qualities,  and 
qualifications — no  one  so  much  as  thought  of  raising  the 
questions.  His  land  was  undeniable,  his  rentals  steady  ; 
excellent  plantations  had  been  made  ;  the  tenants  paid 
for  repairs,  rates,  and  taxes  ;  the  apple-trees  were  thirty- 
eight  years  old  ;  and,  to  crown  all,  his  father  was  in 
treaty  for  two  hundred  acres  of  woodland  just  outside 
the  paternal  park,  which  he  intended  to  enclose  with 
walls.  No  hopes  of  a  political  career,  no  fame  on  earth, 
can  compare  with  such  advantages  as  these. 

Whether  out  of  malice  or  design,  Mme.  de  Sainte- 
Sevère  omitted  to  mention  that  Gaston  had  an  elder 
brother  ;  nor  did  Gaston  himself  say  a  word  about  him. 
But,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  true  that  the  brother  was 
consumptive,  and  to  all  appearance  would  shortly  be 
laid  in  earth,  lamented  and  forgotten. 

At  first  Gaston  de  Nueil  amused  himself  at  the 
expense  of  the  circle.  He  drew,  as  it  were,  for  his 
mental  album,  a  series  of  portraits  of  these  folk,  with 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


219 


their  angular,  wrinkled  faces  and  hooked  noses,  their 
crotchets  and  ludicrous  eccentricities  of  dress,  portraits 
which  possessed  all  the  racy  flavour  of  truth.  He 
delighted  in  their  '  Normanisms,'  in  the  primitive  quaint- 
ness  of  their  ideas  and  characters.  For  a  short  time  he 
flung  himself  into  their  squirrel's  life  of  busy  gyrations 
in  a  cage.  Then  he  began  to  feel  the  want  of  variety, 
and  grew  tired  of  it.  It  was  like  the  life  of  the  cloister, 
cut  short  before  it  had  well  begun.  He  drifted  on  till 
he  reached  a  crisis,  which  is  neither  spleen  nor  disgust, 
but  combines  all  the  symptoms  of  both.  When  a 
human  being  is  transplanted  into  an  uncongenial  soil,  to 
lead  a  starved,  stunted  existence,  there  is  always  a  little 
discomfort  over  the  transition.  Then,  gradually,  if 
nothing  removes  him  from  his  surroundings,  he  grows 
accustomed  to  them,  and  adapts  himself  to  the  vacuity 
which  grows  upon  him  and  renders  him  powerless. 
Even  now,  Gaston's  lungs  were  accustomed  to  the  air  ; 
and  he  was  willing  to  discern  a  kind  of  vegetable  happi- 
ness in  days  that  brought  no  mental  exertion  and  no 
responsibilities.  The  constant  stirring  of  the  sap  of  life, 
the  fertilising  influences  of  mind  on  mind,  after  which  he 
had  sought  so  eagerly  in  Paris,  were  beginning  to  fade 
from  his  memory,  and  he  was  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming 
a  fossil  with  these  fossils,  and  ending  his  days  among 
them,  content,  like  the  companions  of  Ulysses,  in  his 
gross  envelope. 

One  evening  Gaston  de  Nueil  was  seated  between  a 
dowager  and  one  of  the  vicars-general  of  the  diocese,  in 
a  grey-panelled  drawing-room,  floored  with  large,  white 
tiles.  The  family  portraits  which  adorned  the  walls 
looked  down  upon  four  card-tables,  and  some  sixteen 
persons  gathered  about  them,  chattering  over  their  whist. 
Gaston,  thinking  of  nothing,  digesting  one  of  those 
exquisite  dinners  to  which  the  provincial  looks  forward 
,  all  through  the  day,  found  himself  justifying  the  customs 
of  the  country. 


22o  A  Forsaken  Lady 


He  began  to  understand  why  these  good  folk  continued 
to  play  with  yesterday's  pack  of  cards  and  shuffled  them 
on  a  threadbare  tablecloth,  and  how  it  was  that  they 
had  ceased  to  dress  for  themselves  or  others.  He  saw 
the  glimmerings  of  something  like  a  philosophy  in 
even  tenor  of  their  perpetual  round,  in  the  calm  of 
their  methodical  monotony,  in  their  ignorance  of  the 
refinements  of  luxury.  Indeed,  he  almost  came  to  think 
that  luxury  profited  nothing  ;  and  even  now,  the  city  of 
Paris,  with  its  passions,  storms,  and  pleasures,  was  scarcely 
more  than  a  memory  of  childhood. 

He  admired  in  all  sincerity  the  red  hands  and  shy, 
bashful  manner  of  some  young  lady  who  at  first  struck 
him  as  an  awkward  simpleton,  unattractive  to  the  last 
degree,  and  surpassingly  ridiculous.  His  doom  was 
sealed.  He  had  gone  from  the  provinces  to  Paris  ;  he 
had  led  the  feverish  life  of  Paris  ;  and  now  he  would  have 
sunk  back  into  the  lifeless  life  of  the  provinces,  but  for  a 
chance  remark  which  reached  his  ear — a  few  words  that 
called  up  a  swift  rush  of  such  emotion  as  he  might  have 
felt  when  a  strain  of  really  great  music  mingles  with  the 
accompaniment  of  some  tedious  opera. 

4  You  went  to  call  on  Mme.  de  Beauséant  yesterday, 
did  you  not  ?  '  The  speaker  was  an  elderly  lady,  and  she 
addressed  the  head  of  the  local  royal  family. 

4 1  went  this  morning.  She  was  so  poorly  and  de- 
pressed, that  I  could  not  persuade  her  to  dine  with  us 
to-morrow/ 

c  With  Mme.  de  Champignelles  ? 9  exclaimed  the  dow- 
ager, with  something  like  astonishment  in  her  manner. 

4  With  my  wife,'  calmly  assented  the  noble.  4  Mme. 
de  Beauséant  is  descended  from  the  House  of  Burgundy, 
on  the  spindle  side,  'tis  true,  but  the  name  atones  for 
everything.  My  wife  is  very  much  attached  to  the 
Vicomtesse,  and  the  poor  lady  has  lived  alone  for  such  a 
long  while,  that  ' 

The  Marquis  de  Champignelles  looked  round  about 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


221 


him  while  he  spoke  with  an  air  of  cool  unconcern,  so 
that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  guess  whether  he  made 
a  concession  to  Mme.  de  Beauséant's  misfortunes,  or  paid 
homage  to  her  noble  birth  ;  whether  he  felt  flattered  to 
receive  her  in  his  house,  or,  on  the  contrary,  sheer  pride 
was  the  motive  that  led  him  to  try  to  force  the  country 
families  to  meet  the  Vicomtesse. 

The  women  appeared  to  take  counsel  of  each  other 
by  a  glance  ;  there  was  a  sudden  silence  in  the  room,  and 
it  was  felt  that  their  attitude  was  one  of  disapproval. 

i  Does  this  Mme.  de  Beauséant  happen  to  be  the  lady 
whose  adventure  with  M.  d'Ajuda-Pinto  made  so  much 
noise  ? 9  asked  Gaston  of  his  neighbour. 

4  The  very  same,'  he  was  told.  4  She  came  to  Cour- 
celles  after  the  marriage  of  the  Marquis  d'Ajuda  ;  nobody 
visits  her.  She  has,  besides,  too  much  sense  not  to  see 
that  she  is  in  a  false  position,  so  she  has  made  no  attempt 
to  see  any  one.  M.  de  Champignelles  and  a  few  gentle- 
men went  to  call  upon  her,  but  she  would  see  none  but 
M.  de  Champignelles,  perhaps  because  he  is  a  connec- 
tion of  the  family.  They  are  related  through  the 
Beauséants  ;  the  father  of  the  present  Vicomte  married 
a  Mlle,  de  Champignelles  of  the  older  branch.  But 
though  the  Vicomtesse  de  Beauséant  is  supposed  to  be  a 
descendant  of  the  House  of  Burgundy,  you  can  under- 
stand that  we  could  not  admit  a  wife  separated  from  her 
husband  into  our  society  here.  We  are  foolish  enough 
still  to  cling  to  these  old-fashioned  ideas.  There  was 
the  less  excuse  for  the  Vicomtesse,  because  M.  de 
Beauséant  is  a  well-bred  man  of  the  world,  who  would 
have  been  quite  ready  to  listen  to  reason.  But  his  wife 
is  quite  mad  '  and  so  forth  and  so  forth. 

M.  de  Nueil,  still  listening  to  the  speaker's  voice, 
gathered  nothing  of  the  sense  of  the  words  ;  his  brain 
was  too  full  of  thick-coming  fancies.  Fancies  ?  What 
other  name  can  you  give  to  the  alluring  charms  of  an 
adventure  that  tempts  the  imagination  and  sets  vague 


222  A  Forsaken  Lady 


hopes  springing  up  in  the  soul  ;  to  the  sense  of  coming 
events  and  mysterious  felicity  and  fear  at  hand,  while  as 
yet  there  is  no  substance  of  fact  on  which  these  phantoms 
of  caprice  can  fix  and  feed  ?  Over  these  fancies  thought 
hovers,  conceiving  impossible  projects,  giving  in  the 
germ  all  the  joys  of  love.  Perhaps,  indeed,  all  passion  is 
contained  in  that  thought-germ,  as  the  beauty,  and 
fragrance,  and  rich  colour  of  the  flower  is  all  packed  in 
the  seed. 

M.  de  Nueil  did  not  know  that  Mme.  de  Beauséant 
had  taken  refuge  in  Normandy,  after  a  notoriety  which 
women  for  the  most  part  envy  and  condemn,  especially 
when  youth  and  beauty  in  some  sort  excuse  the  trans- 
gression. Any  sort  of  celebrity  bestows  an  inconceivable 
prestige.  Apparently  for  women,  as  for  families,  the 
glory  of  the  crime  effaces  the  stain  ;  and  if  such  and  such  a 
noble  house  is  proud  of  its  tale  of  heads  that  have  fallen 
on  the  scaffold,  a  young  and  pretty  woman  becomes 
more  interesting  for  the  dubious  renown  of  a  happy  love 
or  a  scandalous  desertion,  and  the  more  she  is  to  be 
pitied,  the  more  she  excites  our  sympathies.  We  are 
only  pitiless  to  the  commonplace.  If,  moreover,  we 
attract  all  eyes,  we  are  to  all  intents  and  purposes  great  ; 
how,  indeed,  are  we  to  be  seen  unless  we  raise  ourselves 
above  other  people's  heads  ?  The  common  herd  of 
humanity  feels  an  involuntary  respect  for  any  person 
who  can  rise  above  it,  and  is  not  over  particular  as  to 
the  means  by  which  they  rise. 

It  may  have  been  that  some  such  motives  influenced 
Gaston  de  Nueil  at  unawares,  or  perhaps  it  was  curiosity, 
or  a  craving  for  some  interest  in  his  life  ;  or,  in  a  word, 
that  crowd  of  inexplicable  impulses  which,  for  want  of  a 
better  name,  we  are  wont  to  call  c  fatality,'  that  drew 
him  to  Mme.  de  Beauséant. 

The  figure  of  the  Vicomtesse  de  Beauséant  rose  up 
suddenly  before  him  with  gracious  thronging  associations. 
She  was  a  new  world  for  him,  a  world  of  fears  and  hopes, 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


223 


a  world  to  fight  for  and  to  conquer.  Inevitably  he  felt 
the  contrast  between  this  vision  and  the  human  beings  in 
the  shabby  room  ;  and  then,  in  truth,  she  was  a  woman  ; 
what  woman  had  he  seen  so  far  in  this  dull,  little  world, 
where  calculation  replaced  thought  and  feeling,  where 
courtesy  was  a  cut-and-dried  formality,  and  ideas  of  the 
very  simplest  were  too  alarming  to  be  received  or  to  pass 
current  ?  The  sound  of  Mme.  de  Beauséant's  name 
revived  a  young  man's  dreams  and  wakened  urgent 
desires  that  had  lain  dormant  for  a  little. 

Gaston  de  Nueil  was  absent-minded  and  preoccupied 
for  the  rest  of  that  evening.  He  was  pondering  how  he 
might  gain  access  to  Mme.  de  Beauséant,  and  truly  it 
was  no  very  easy  matter.  She  was  believed  to  be  extremely 
clever.  But  if  men  and  women  of  parts  may  be  captivated 
by  something  subtle  or  eccentric,  they  are  also  exacting, 
and  can  read  all  that  lies  below  the  surface  ;  and  after 
the  first  step  has  been  taken,  the  chances  of  failure 
and  success  in  the  difficult  task  of  pleasing  them  are 
about  even.  In  this  particular  case,  moreover,  the 
Vicomtesse,  besides  the  pride  of  her  position,  had  all  the 
dignity  of  her  name.  Her  utter  seclusion  was  the  least 
of  the  barriers  raised  between  her  and  the  world.  For 
which  reasons  it  was  well  nigh  impossible  that  a  stranger, 
however  well  born,  could  hope  for  admittance  ;  and  yet, 
the  next  morning  found  M.  de  Nueil  taking  his  walks 
abroad  in  the  direction  of  Courcelles,  a  dupe  of  illusions 
natural  at  his  age.  Several  times  he  made  the  circuit 
of  the  garden  walls,  looking  earnestly  through  every 
gap  at  the  closed  shutters  or  open  windows,  hoping 
for  some  romantic  chance,  on  which  he  founded  schemes 
for  introducing  himself  into  this  unknown  lady's  presence, 
without  a  thought  of  their  impracticability.  Morning 
after  morning  was  spent  in  this  way  to  mighty  little 
purpose;  but  with  each  day's  walk,  that  vision  of  a 
woman  living  apart  from  the  world,  of  love's  martyr 
buried  in  solitude,  loomed  larger  in  his  thoughts,  and  was 


224  A  Forsaken  Lady 


enshrined  in  his  soul.  So  Gaston  de  Nueil  walked 
under  the  walls  of  Courcelles,  and  some  gardener's  heavy 
footstep  would  set  his  heart  beating  high  with  hope. 

He  thought  of  writing  to  Mme.  de  Beauséant,  but  on 
mature  consideration,  what  can  you  say  to  a  woman 
whom  you  have  never  seen,  a  complete  stranger  ?  And 
Gaston  had  little  self-confidence.  Like  most  young 
persons  with  a  plentiful  crop  of  illusions  still  standing, 
he  dreaded  the  mortifying  contempt  of  silence  more  than 
death  itself,  and  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  sending 
his  first  tender  epistle  forth  to  face  so  many  chances  of 
being  thrown  on  the  fire.  He  was  distracted  by  in- 
numerable conflicting  ideas.  But  by  dint  of  inventing 
chimeras,  weaving  romances,  and  cudgelling  his  brains, 
he  hit  at  last  upon  one  of  the  hopeful  stratagems  that 
are  sure  to  occur  to  your  mind  if  you  persevere  long 
enough,  a  stratagem  which  must  make  clear  to  the  most 
inexperienced  woman  that  here  was  a  man  who  took  a 
fervent  interest  in  her.  The  caprice  of  social  conventions 
puts  as  many  barriers  between  lovers  as  any  Oriental 
imagination  can  devise  in  the  most  delightfully  fantastic 
tale  ;  indeed,  the  most  extravagant  pictures  are  seldom 
exaggerations.  In  jrcal ^.Hfe*: a^ii-Jie_^j^L^JesJ!_the 
woinan  belongs  to  him  who  can  re acj^  Jiex_flnd~set  her 
free  fi^omThe  position  jn_^  wHcE^she  languishes.  The 
poorest  of  blenders  that  ever  fell  in  love  with  the 
daughter  of  the  Khali  f  is  in  truth  scarcely  further 
from  his  lady  than  Gaston  de  Nueil  from  Mme.  de 
Beauséant.  The  Vicomtesse  knew  absolutely  nothing 
of  M.  de  Nueil's  wanderings  round  her  house  ;  Gaston 
de  Nueil's  love  grew  to  the  height  of  the  obstacles  to 
overleap  ;  and  the  distance  set  between  him  and  his 
extemporised  lady-love  produced  the  usual  effect  of 
distance,  in  lending  enchantment. 

One  day,  confident  in  his  inspiration,  he  hoped  every- 
thing from  the  love  that  must  pour  forth  from  his  eyes. 
Spoken  words,  in  his  opinion,  were  more  eloquent  than 


A  Forsaken  Lady  225 


the  most  passionate  letter  ;  and,  besides,  he  would 
engage  feminine  curiosity  to  plead  for  him.  He  went, 
therefore,  to  M.  de  Champignelles,  proposing  to  employ 
that  gentleman  for  the  better  success  of  his  enterprise. 
He  informed  the  Marquis  that  he  had  been  intrusted 
with  a  delicate  and  important  commission  which  con- 
cerned the  Vicomtesse  de  Beauséant,  that  he  felt  doubtful 
whether  she  would  read  a  letter  written  in  an  unknown 
handwriting,  or  put  confidence  in  a  stranger.  Would 
M.  de  Champignelles,  on  his  next  visit,  ask  the 
Vicomtesse  if  she  would  consent  to  receive  him — 
Gaston  de  Nueil  ?  While  he  asked  the  Marquis  to  keep 
his  secret  in  case  of  a  refusal,  he  very  ingeniously 
insinuated  sufficient  reasons  for  his  own  admittance,  to 
be  duly  passed  on  to  the  Vicomtesse.  Was  not  M.  de 
Champignelles  a  man  of  honour,  a  loyal  gentleman  in- 
capable of  lending  himself  to  any  transaction  in  bad  taste, 
nay,  the  merest  suspicion  of  bad  taste  !  Love  lends  a 
young  man  all  the  self-possession  and  astute  craft  of  an 
old  ambassador  ;  all  the  Marquis's  harmless  vanities  were 
gratified,  and  the  haughty  grandee  was  completely  duped. 
He  tried  hard  to  fathom  Gaston's  secret  ;  but  the  latter, 
who  would  have  been  greatly  perplexed  to  tell  it,  turned 
off  M.  de  Champignelles'  adroit  questioning  with  a  Nor- 
man's shrewdness,  till  the  Marquis,  as  a  gallant  Frenchman, 
complimented  his  young  visitor  upon  his  discretion. 

M.  de  Champignelles  hurried  off  at  once  to  Courcelles, 
with  that  eagerness  to  serve  a  pretty  woman  which  belongs 
to  his  time  of  life.  In  the  Vicomtesse  de  Beauséant's 
position,  such  a  message  was  likely  to  arouse  keen 
curiosity  ;  so,  although  her  memory  supplied  no  reason 
at  all  that  could  bring  M.  de  Nueil  to  her  house,  she 
saw  no  objection  to  his  visit — after  some  prudent  inquiries 
as  to  his  family  and  condition.  At  the  same  time,  she 
began  by  a  refusal.  Then  she  discussed  the  propriety 
of  the  matter  with  M.  de  Champignelles,  directing 
her  questions  so  as  to  discover,  if  possible,  whether  he 

p 


226 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


knew  the  motives  for  the  visit,  and  finally  revoked  her 
negative  answer.  The  discussion  and  the  discretion 
shown  perforce  by  the  Marquis  had  piqued  her  curiosity. 

M.  de  Champignelles  had  no  mind  to  cut  a  ridiculous 
figure.  He  said,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  can  keep 
another's  counsel,  that  the  Vicomtesse  must  know  the 
purpose  of  this  visit  perfectly  well  ;  while  the  Vicomtesse, 
in  all  sincerity,  had  no  notion  what  it  could  be.  Mme. 
de  Beauséant,  in  perplexity,  connected  Gaston  with 
people  whom  he  had  never  met,  went  astray  after  various 
wild  conjectures,  and  asked  herself  if  she  had  seen  this 
M.  de  Nueil  before.  In  truth,  no  love  letter,  however 
sincere  or  skilfully  indited,  could  have  produced  so  much 
effect  as  this  riddle.  Again  and  again  Mme.  de  Beau- 
séant  puzzled  over  it. 

When  Gaston  heard  that  he  might  call  upon  the 
Vicomtesse,  his  rapture  at  so  soon  obtaining  the  ardently 
longed-for  good  fortune  was  mingled  with  singular  em- 
barrassment. How  was  he  to  contrive  a  suitable  sequel 
to  this  stratagem  ? 

i  Bah  !  I  shall  see  heryy  he  said  over  and  over  again 
to  himself  as  he  dressed.  4  See  her,  and  that  is  every- 
thing ! 9 

He  fell  to  hoping  that  once  across  the  threshold  of 
Courcelles  he  should  find  an  expedient  for  unfastening 
this  Gordian  knot  of  his  own  tying.  There  are  believers 
in  the  omnipotence  of  necessity  who  never  turn  back  ; 
the  close  presence  of  danger  is  an  inspiration  that  calls 
out  all  their  powers  for  victory.  Gaston  de  Nueil  was 
one  of  these. 

He  took  particular  pains  with  his  dress,  imagining,  as 
youth  is  apt  to  imagine,  that  success  or  failure  hangs  on  the 
position  of  a  curl,  and  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  anything 
is  charming  in  youth.  And,  in  any  case,  such  women  as 
Mme.  de  Beauséant  are  only  attracted  by  the  charms 
of  wit  or  character  of  an  unusual  order.  Greatness  of 
character  flatters  their  vanity,  promises  a  great  passion, 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


seems  to  imply  a  comprehension  of  the  requirements  of 
their  hearts.  Wit  amuses  them,  responds  to  the  subtlety 
of  their  natures,  and  they  think  that  they  are  understood. 
And  what  do  all  women  wish  but  to  be  amused,  under- 
stood, or  adored  ?  It  is  only  after  much  reflection  on 
the  things  of  life  that  we  understand  the  consummate 
coquetry  of  neglect  of  dress  and  reserve  at  a  first  inter- 
view ;  and  by  the  time  we  have  gained  sufficient  astute- 
ness for  successful  strategy,  we  are  too  old  to  profit 
by  our  experience. 

While  Gaston's  lack  of  confidence  in  his  mental  equip- 
ment drove  him  to  borrow  charms  from  his  clothes, 
Mme.  de  Beauséant  herself  was  instinctively  giving 
more  attention  to  her  toilette. 

4 1  would  rather  not  frighten  people,  at  all  events,'  she 
said  to  herself  as  she  arranged  her  hair. 

In  M.  de  Nueil's  character,  person,  and  manner  there 
was  that  touch  of  unconscious  originality  which  gives  a 
kind  of  flavour  to  things  that  any  one  might  say  or  do, 
and  absolves  everything  that  they  may  choose  to  do  or 
say.  He  was  highly  cultivated,  he  had  a  keen  brain,  and 
a  face,  mobile  as  his  own  nature,  which  won  the  goodwill 
of  others.  The  promise  of  passion  and  tenderness  in  the 
bright  eyes  was  fulfilled  by  an  essentially  kindly  heart. 
The  resolution  which  he  made  as  he  entered  the  house 
at  Courcelles  was  in  keeping  with  his  frank  nature  and 
ardent  imagination.  But,  bold  as  he  was  with  love,  his 
heart  beat  violently  when  he  had  crossed  the  great  court, 
laid  out  like  an  English  garden,  and  the  man-servant, 
who  had  taken  his  name  to  the  Vicomtesse,  returned  to 
say  that  she  would  receive  him. 

c  M.  le  Baron  de  Nueil.' 

Gaston  came  in  slowly,  but  with  sufficient  ease  of 
manner;  and  it  is  a  more  difficult  thing,  be  it  said,  to 
enter  a  room  where  there  is  but  one  woman,  than  a  room 
that  holds  a  score. 

A  great  fire  was  burning  on  the  hearth  in  spite  of  the 


228 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


mild  weather,  and  by  the  soft  light  of  the  candles  in  the 
sconces  he  saw  a  young  woman  sitting  on  a  high-backed 
bergère  in  the  angle  by  the  hearth.  The  seat  was  so 
low  that  she  could  move  her  head  freely  ;  every  turn 
of  it  was  full  of  grace  and  delicate  charm,  whether  she 
bent,  leaning  forward,  or  raised  and  held  it  erect,  slowly 
and  languidly,  as  though  it  were  a  heavy  burden,  so 
low  that  she  could  cross  her  feet  and  let  them  appear, 
or  draw  them  back  under  the  folds  of  a  long,  black 
dress. 

The  Vicomtesse  made  as  if  she  would  lay  the  book 
that  she  was  reading  on  a  small,  round  stand  ;  but  as  she 
did  so,  she  turned  towards  M.  de  Nueil,  and  the  volume, 
insecurely  laid  upon  the  edge,  fell  to  the  ground  between 
the  stand  and  the  sofa.  This  did  not  seem  to  disconcert 
her.  She  looked  up,  bowing  almost  imperceptibly  in 
response  to  his  greeting,  without  rising  from  the  depths 
of  the  low  chair  in  which  she  lay.  Bending  forwards, 
she  stirred  the  fire  briskly,  and  stooped  to  pick  up  a 
fallen  glove,  drawing  it  mechanically  over  her  left  hand, 
while  her  eyes  wandered  in  search  of  its  fellow.  The 
glance  was  instantly  checked,  however,  for  she  stretched 
out  a  thin,  white,  all-but-transparent  right  hand,  with 
flawless  ovals  of  rose-coloured  nail  at  the  tips  of  the 
slender,  ringless  fingers,  and  pointed  to  a  chair  as  if  to 
bid  Gaston  be  seated.  He  sat  down,  and  she  turned  her 
face  questioningly  towards  him.  Words  cannot  describe 
the  subtlety  of  the  winning  charm  and  inquiry  in  that 
gesture  ;  deliberate  in  its  kindliness,  gracious  yet  accu- 
rate in  expression,  it  was  the  outcome  of  early  education 
and  of  a  constant  use  and  wont  of  the  graciousnesses  of 
life.  Those  movements  of  hers,  so  swift,  so  deft,  suc- 
ceeded each  other  so  smoothly,  that  Gaston  de  Nueil 
was  fascinated  by  the  blending  of  a  pretty  woman's 
fastidious  carelessness  with  the  high-bred  manner  of  a 
great  lady. 

Mme.  de  Beauséant  stood  out  in  such  strong  contrast 


A  Forsaken  Lady  229 

against  the  automatons  among  whom  he  had  spent  two 
months  of  exile  in  that  out-of-the-world  district  of 
Normandy,  that  he  could  not  but  find  in  her  the  realisa- 
tion of  his  romantic  dreams  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
could  not  compare  her  perfections  with  those  of  other 
women  whom  he  had  formerly  admired.  Here  in  her 
presence,  in  a  drawing-room  like  some  salon  in  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  full  of  costly  trifles  lying 
about  upo;:  the  tables,  and  flowers  and  books,  he  felt  as 
if  he  were  back  in  Paris.  It  was  a  real  Parisian  carpet 
beneath  his  feet,  he  saw  once  more  the  high-bred  type 
of  Parisienne,  the  fragile  outlines  of  her  form,  her 
exquisite  charm,  her  disdain  of  the  studied  effects  which 
do  so  much  to  spoil  provincial  women. 

Mme.  de  Beauséant  had  fair  hair  and  dark  eyes,  and 
the  pale  complexion  that  belongs  to  fair  hair.  She  held 
up  her  brow  nobly  like  some  fallen  angel,  grown  proud 
through  the  fall,  disdainful  of  pardon.  Her  way  of 
gathering  her  thick  hair  into  a  crown  of  plaits  above  the 
broad,  curving  lines  of  the  bandeaux  upon  her  forehead, 
added  to  the  queenliness  of  her  face.  Imagination  could 
discover  the  ducal  coronet  of  Burgundy  in  the  spiral 
threads  of  her  golden  hair  ;  all  the  courage  of  her  house 
seemed  to  gleam  from  the  great  lady's  brilliant  eyes, 
such  courage  as  women  use  to  repel  audacity  or  scorn, 
for  they  were  full  of  tenderness  for  gentleness.  The 
outline  of  that  little  head,  so  admirably  poised  above  the 
long,  white  throat,  the  delicate,  fine  features,  the  subtle 
curves  of  the  lips,  the  mobile  face  itself,  wore  an  expres- 
sion of  delicate  discretion,  a  faint  semblance  of  irony  sug- 
gestive of  craft  and  insolence.  Yet  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  refuse  forgiveness  to  those  two  feminine  fail- 
ings in  her  ;  for  the  lines  that  came  out  in  her  forehead 
whenever  her  face  was  not  in  repose,  like  her  upward 
glances  (that  pathetic  trick  of  manner),  told  unmistakably 
of  unhappiness,  of  a  passion  that  had  all  but  cost  her  her 
life.   A  woman,  sitting  in  the  great,  silent  salon,  a  woman 


2JO 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  in  this  remote  little 
valley,  alone,  with  the  memories  of  her  brilliant,  happy, 
and  impassioned  youth,  of  continual  gaiety  and  homage 
paid  on  all  sides,  now  replaced  by  the  horrors  of  the 
void — was  there  not  something  in  the  sight  to  strike 
awe  that  deepened  with  reflection  ?  Consciousness  of 
her  own  value  lurked  in  her  smile.  She  was  neither 
wife  nor  mother,  she  was  an  outlaw  ;  she  had  lost  the 
one  heart  that  could  set  her  pulses  beating  without 
shame  ;  she  had  nothing  from  without  to  support  her 
reeling  soul  ;  she  must  even  look  for  strength  from 
within,  live  her  own  life,  cherish  no  hope  save  that  of 
forsaken  love,  which  looks  forward  to  Death's  coming, 
and  hastens  his  lagging  footsteps.  And  this  while  life 
was  in  its  prime.  Oh  !  to  feel  destined  for  happiness 
and  to  die — never  having  given  nor  received  it  !  A 
woman  too  !  What  pain  was  this  !  These  thoughts, 
flashing  across  M.  de  Nueil's  mind  like  lightning,  left  him 
very  humble  in  the  presence  of  the  greatest  charm  with 
which  woman  can  be  invested.  The  triple  aureole  of 
beauty,  nobleness,  and  misfortune  dazzled  him  ;  he 
stood  in  dreamy,  almost  open-mouthed,  admiration  of 
the  Vicomtesse.  But  he  found  nothing  to  say  to 
her. 

Mme.  de  Beauséant,  by  no  means  displeased,  no 
doubt,  by  his  surprise,  held  out  her  hand  with  a  kindly 
but  imperious  gesture  ;  then,  summoning  a  smile  to  her 
pale  lips,  as  if  obeying,  even  yet,  the  woman's  impulse 
to  be  gracious — 

c  I  have  heard  from  M.  de  Champignelles  of  a 
message  which  you  have  kindly  undertaken  to  deliver, 
monsieur,'  she  said.    1  Can  it  be  from  ' 

With  that  terrible  phrase  Gaston  understood,  even 
more  clearly  than  before,  his  own  ridiculous  position,  the 
bad  taste  and  bad  faith  of  his  behaviour  towards  a 
woman  so  noble  and  so  unfortunate.  He  reddened. 
The  thoughts  that  crowded  in  upon  him  could  be  read 


A  Forsaken  Lady  231 


in  his  troubled  eyes  ;  but  suddenly,  with  the  courage 
which  youth  draws  from  a  sense  of  its  own  wrongdoing, 
he  gained  confidence,  and  very  humbly  interrupted 
Mme.  de  Beauséant. 

4  Madame,'  he  faltered  out,  i  I  do  not  deserve  the 
happiness  of  seeing  you.  I  have  deceived  you  basely. 
However  strong  the  motive  may  have  been,  it  can  never 
excuse  the  pitiftil  subterfuge  which  I  used  to  gain  my 
end.  But,  madame,  if  your  goodness  will  permit  me 
to  tell  you  • 

The  Vicomtesse  glanced  at  M.  de  Nueil,  haughty 
disdain  in  her  whole  manner.  She  stretched  her  hand 
to  the  bell  and  rang  it. 

4  Jacques,'  she  said,  4  light  this  gentleman  to  the  door,' 
and  she  looked  with  dignity  at  the  visitor. 

She  rose  proudly,  bowed  to  Gaston,  and  then  stooped 
for  the  fallen  volume.  If  all  her  movements  on  his 
entrance  had  been  caressingly  dainty  and  gracious,  her 
every  gesture  now  was  no  less  severely  frigid.  M.  de 
Nueil  rose  to  his  feet,  but  he  stood  waiting.  Mme.  de 
Beauséant  flung  another  glance  at  him.  'Well,  why 
do  you  not  go  ?  '  she  seemed  to  say. 

There  was  such  cutting  irony  in  that  glance  that 
Gaston  grew  white  as  if  he  were  about  to  faint.  Tears 
came  into  his  eyes,  but  he  would  not  let  them  fall,  and 
scorching  shame  and  despair  dried  them.  He  looked 
back  at  Mme.  de  Beauséant,  and  a  certain  pride  and 
consciousness  of  his  own  worth  was  mingled  with  his 
humility  ;  the  Vicomtesse  had  a  right  to  punish  him, 
but  ought  she  to  use  her  right  ?  Then  he  went 
out. 

As  he  crossed  the  ante-chamber,  a  clear  head,  and  wits 
sharpened  by  passion,  were  not  slow  to  grasp  the  danger 
of  his  situation. 

*  If  I  leave  this  house,  I  can  never  come  back  to  it 
again,'  he  said  to  himself.  *  The  Vicomtesse  will 
always  think  of  me  as  a  fool.    It  is  impossible  that  a 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


woman,  and  such  a  woman,  should  not  guess  the  love 
that  she  has  called  forth.  Perhaps  she  feels  a  little, 
vague,  involuntary  regret  for  dismissing  me  so  abruptly. 
— But  she  could  not  do  otherwise,  and  she  cannot  recall 
her  sentence.    It  rests  with  me  to  understand  her.' 

At  that  thought  Gaston  stopped  short  on  the  flight 
of  steps  with  an  exclamation  ;  he  turned  sharply,  saying, 
i  I  have  forgotten  something,'  and  went  back  to  the 
salon.  The  lackey,  all  respect  for  a  baron  and  the 
rights  of  property,  was  completely  deceived  by  the 
natural  utterance,  and  followed  him.  Gaston  returned 
quietly  and  unannounced.  The  Vicomtesse,  thinking 
that  the  intruder  was  the  servant,  looked  up  and  beheld 
M.  de  Nueil. 

i  Jacques  lighted  me  to  the  door,'  he  said,  with  a  half- 
sad  smile  which  dispelled  any  suspicion  of  jest  in  those 
words,  while  the  tone  in  which  they  were  spoken  went 
to  the  heart.    Mme.  de  Beauséant  was  disarmed. 

'  Very  well,  take  a  seat,'  she  said. 

Gaston  eagerly  took  possession  of  a  chair.  His  eyes 
were  shining  with  happiness  ;  the  Vicomtesse,  unable  to 
endure  the  brilliant  light  in  them,  looked  down  at  the 
book.  She  was  enjoying  a  delicious,  ever  new  sensation  ; 
the  sense  of  a  man's  delight  in  her  presence  is  an  un- 
failing feminine  instinct.  And  then,  besides,  he  had 
divined  her,  and  a  woman  is  so  grateful  to  the  man  who 
has  mastered  the  apparently  capricious,  yet  logical, 
reasoning  of  her  heart  ;  who  can  track  her  thought 
through  the  seemingly  contradictory  workings  of  her 
mind,  and  read  the  sensations,  or  shy  or  bold,  written 
in  fleeting  red,  a  bewildering  maze  of  coquetry  and  self- 
revelation. 

c  Madame,'  Gaston  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice,  c  my 
blunder  you  know,  but  you  do  not  know  how  much  I 
am  to  blame.  If  you  only  knew  what  joy  it  was 
to  ' 

6  Ah  !  take  care,'  she  said,  holding  up  one  finger  with 


A  Forsaken  Lady  233 


an  air  of  mystery,  as  she  put  out  her  hand  towards 
the  bell. 

The  charming  gesture,  the  gracious  threat,  no  doubt, 
called  up  some  sad  thought,  some  memory  of  the  old 
happy  time  when  she  could  be  wholly  charming  and 
gentle  without  an  afterthought  ;  when  the  gladness  of 
her  heart  justified  every  caprice,  and  put  charm  into 
every  least  movement.  The  lines  in  her  forehead 
gathered  between  her  brows,  and  the  expression  of  her 
face  grew  dark  in  the  soft  candle-light.  Then  looking 
across  at  M.  de  Nueil  gravely  but  not  unkindly,  she 
spoke  like  a  woman  who  deeply  feels  the  meaning  of 
every  word. 

'  This  is  all  very  ridiculous  !  Once  upon  a  time, 
monsieur,  when  thoughtless  high  spirits  were  my 
privilege,  I  should  have  laughed  fearlessly  over  your 
visit  with  you.  But  now  my  life  is  very  much  changed. 
I  cannot  do  as  I  like,  I  am  obliged  to  think.  What 
brings  you  here  ?  Is  it  curiosity  ?  In  that  case  I  am 
paying  dearly  for  a  little  fleeting  pleasure.  Have  you 
fallen  passionately  in  love  already  with  a  woman  whom 
you  have  never  seen,  a  woman  with  whose  name  slander 
has,  of  course,  been  busy  ?  If  so,  your  motive  in 
making  this  visit  is  based  on  disrespect,  on  an  error 
which  accident  brought  into  notoriety.' 

She  flung  her  book  down  scornfully  upon  the  table, 
then,  with  a  terrible  look  at  Gaston,  she  went  on  : 
c  Because  I  once  was  weak,  must  it  be  supposed  that  I 
am  always  weak  ?  This  is  horrible,  degrading.  Or 
have  you  come  here  to  pity  me  ?  You  are  very  young 
to  offer  sympathy  with  heart  troubles.  Understand 
this  clearly,  sir,  that  I  would  rather  have  scorn  than 
pity.    I  will  not  endure  compassion  from  any  one.' 

There  was  a  brief  pause. 

c  Well,  sir,'  she  continued  (and  the  face  that  she 
turned  to  him  was  gentle  and  sad),  4  whatever  motive 
induced  this  rash  intrusion  upon  my  solitude,  it  is  very 


*34 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


painful  to  me,  you  see.  You  are  too  young  to  be 
totally  without  good  feeling,  so  surely  you  will  feel  that 
this  behaviour  of  yours  is  improper.  I  forgive  you  for 
it,  and,  as  you  see,  I  am  speaking  of  it  to  you  without 
bitterness.  You  will  not  come  here  again,  will  you  ? 
I  am  entreating  when  I  might  command.  If  you  come 
to  see  me  again,  neither  you  nor  I  can  prevent  the  whole 
place  from  believing  that  you  are  my  lover,  and  you 
would  cause  me  great  additional  annoyance.  You  do 
not  mean  to  do  that,  I  think.' 

She  said  no  more,  but  looked  at  him  with  a  great 
dignity  which  abashed  him. 

4 1  have  done  wrong,  madame,'  he  said,  with  deep 
feeling  in  his  voice,  i  but  it  was  through  enthusiasm  and 
thoughtlessness  and  eager  desire  of  happiness,  the  quali- 
ties and  defects  of  my  age.  Now,  I  understand  that  I 
ought  not  to  have  tried  to  see  you,'  he  added  •>  6  but,  at 
the  same  time,  the  desire  was  a  very  natural  one  \ — and 
making  an  appeal  to  feeling  rather  than  to  the  intellect, 
he  described  the  weariness  of  his  enforced  exile.  He 
drew  a  portrait  of  a  young  man  in  whom  the  fires  of 
life  were  burning  themselves  out,  conveying  the  impres- 
sion that  here  was  a  heart  worthy  of  tender  love,  a  heart 
which,  notwithstanding,  had  never  known  the  joys  of 
love  for  a  young  and  beautiful  woman  of  refinement  and 
taste.  He  explained,  without  attempting  to  justify,  his 
unusual  conduct.  He  flattered  Mme.  de  Beauséant  by 
showing  that  she  had  realised  for  him  the  ideal  lady  of  a 
young  man's  dream,  the  ideal  sought  by  so  many,  and  so 
often  sought  in  vain.  Then  he  touched  upon  his  morn- 
ing prowlings  under  the  walls  of  Courcelles,  and  his  wild 
thoughts  at  the  first  sight  of  the  house,  till  he  excited 
that  vague  feeling  of  indulgence  which  a  woman  can 
find  in  her  heart  for  the  follies  committed  for  her  sake. 

An  impassioned  voice  was  speaking  in  the  chill 
solitude  ;  the  speaker  brought  with  him  a  warm  breath 
of  youth  and  the  charms  of  a  carefully  cultivated  mind. 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


*35 


It  was  so  long  since  Mme.  de  Beauséant  had  felt  stirred 
by  real  feeling  delicately  expressed,  that  it  affected  her 
very  strongly  now.  In  spite  of  herself,  she  watched  M. 
de  Nueil's  expressive  face,  and  admired  the  noble  confid- 
ence of  a  soul,  unbroken  as  yet  by  the  cruel  discipline 
of  the  life  of  the  world,  unfretted  by  continual  scheming 
to  gratify  personal  ambition  and  vanity.  Gaston  was  in 
the  flower  of  his  youth,  he  impressed  her  as  a  man  with 
something  in  him,  unaware  as  yet  of  the  great  career  that 
lay  before  him.  So  both  these  two  made  reflections 
most  dangerous  for  their  peace  of  mind,  and  both  strove 
to  conceal  their  thoughts.  M.  de  Nueil  saw  in  the 
Vicomtesse  a  rare  type  of  woman,  always  the  victim  of 
her  perfection  and  tenderness  ;  her  graceful  beauty  is 
the  least  of  her  charms  for  those  who  are  privileged  to 
know  the  infinite  of  feeling  and  thought  and  goodness 
in  the  soul  within  ;  a  woman  whose  instinctive  feeling 
for  beauty  runs  through  all  the  most  varied  expressions 
of  love,  purifying  its  transports,  turning  them  to  some- 
thing almost  holy  ;  wonderful  secret  of  womanhood,  the 
exquisite  gift  that  Nature  so  seldom  bestows.  And  the 
Vicomtesse,  on  her  side,  listening  to  the  ring  of  sincerity 
in  Gaston's  voice,  while  he  told  of  his  youthful  troubles, 
began  to  understand  all  that  grown  children  of  five-and- 
twenty  suffer  from  diffidence,  when  hard  work  has  kept 
them  alike  from  corrupting  influences  and  intercourse 
with  men  and  women  of  the  world  whose  sophistical 
reasoning  and  experience  destroys  the  fair  qualities  of 
youth.  Here  was  the  ideal  of  women's  dreams,  a  man 
unspoiled  as  yet  by  the  egoism  of  family  or  success,  or 
by  that  narrow  selfishness  which  blights  the  first 
impulses  of  honour,  devotion,  self-sacrifice,  and  high 
demands  of  self;  all  the  flowers  so  soon  wither  that 
enrich  at  first  the  life  of  delicate  but  strong  emotions, 
and  keep  alive  the  loyalty  of  the  heart. 

But  these  two,  once  launched  forth  into  the  vast  of 
sentiment,  went  far  indeed  in  theory,  sounding  the 


236 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


depths  in  either  soul,  testing  the  sincerity  of  their 
expressions  ;  only,  whereas  Gaston's  experiments  were 
made  unconsciously,  Mme.  de  Beauséant  had  a  purpose 
in  all  that  she  said.  Bringing  her  natural  and  acquired 
subtlety  to  the  work,  she  sought  to  learn  M.  de  Nueil's 
opinions  by  advancing,  as  far  as  she  could  do  so,  views 
diametrically  opposed  to  her  own.  So  witty  and  so 
gracious  was  she,  so  much  herself  with  this  stranger,  with 
whom  she  felt  completely  at  ease,  because  she  felt  sure 
that  they  should  never  meet  again,  that,  after  some 
delicious  epigram  of  hers,  Gaston  exclaimed  unthink- 
ingly— 

c  Oh  !  madame,  how  could  any  man  have  left  you  ?  ' 

The  Vicomtesse  was  silent,  Gaston  reddened,  he 
thought  that  he  had  offended  her  ;  but  she  was  not 
angry.  The  first  deep  thrill  of  delight  since  the  day 
of  her  calamity  had  taken  her  by  surprise.  The  skill  of 
the  cleverest  roue  could  not  have  made  the  impression 
that  M.  de  Nueil  made  with  that  cry  from  the  heart. 
That  verdict  wrung  from  a  young  man's  candour  gave 
her  back  innocence  in  her  own  eyes,  condemned  the 
world,  laid  the  blame  upon  the  lover  who  had  left  her, 
and  justified  her  subsequent  solitary  drooping  life.  The 
world's  absolution,  the  heartfelt  sympathy,  the  social 
esteem  so  longed  for,  and  so  harshly  refused,  nay,  all 
her  secret  desires  were  given  her  to  the  full  in  that 
exclamation,  made  fairer  yet  by  the  heart's  sweetest 
flatteries  and  the  admiration  that  women  alway  relish 
eagerly.  He  understood  her,  understood  all,  and  he  had 
given  her,  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world,  the  opportunity  of  rising  higher  through  her 
fall.    She  looked  at  the  clock. 

4  Ah  !  madame,  do  not  punish  me  for  my  heedlessness. 
If  you  grant  me  but  one  evening,  vouchsafe  not  to 
shorten  it.' 

She  smiled  at  the  pretty  speech. 

c  Well,  as  we  must  never  meet  again,'  she  said,  c  what 


A  Forsaken  Lady  237 


signifies  a  moment  more  or  less  ?    If  you  were  to  care 
for  me,  it  would  be  a  pity.' 
f  It  is  too  late  now,'  he  said. 

i  Do  not  tell  me  that,'  she  answered  gravely.  i  Under 
any  other  circumstances  I  should  be  very  glad  to  see 
you.  I  will  speak  frankly,  and  you  will  understand  how 
it  is  that  I  do  not  choose  to  see  you  again,  and  ought  not 
to  do  so.  You  have  too  much  magnanimity  not  to  feel 
that  if  I  were  so  much  as  suspected  of  a  second  trespass, 
every  one  would  think  of  me  as  a  contemptible  and 
vulgar  woman  ;  I  should  be  like  other  women.  A  pure 
and  blameless  life  will  bring  my  character  into  relief.  I 
am  too  proud  not  to  endeavour  to  live  like  one  apart  in 
the  world,  a  victim  of  the  law  through  my  marriage, 
man's  victim  through  my  love.  If  I  were  not  faithful 
to  the  position  which  I  have  taken  up,  then  I  should 
deserve  all  the  reproach  that  is  heaped  upon  me  ;  I 
should  be  lowered  in  my  own  eyes.  I  had  not  enough 
lofty  social  virtue  to  remain  with  a  man  whom  I  did 
not  love.  I  have  snapped  the  bonds  of  marriage  in  spite 
of  the  law  ;  it  was  wrong,  it  was  a  crime,  it  was  anything 
you  like,  but  for  me  the  bonds  meant  death.  I  meant 
to  live.  Perhaps  if  I  had  been  a  mother  I  could  have 
endured  the  torture  of  a  forced  marriage  of  suitability. 
At  eighteen  we  scarcely  know  what  is  done  with  us, 
poor  girls  that  we  are  !  I  have  broken  the  laws  of  the 
world,  and  the  world  has  punished  me;  we  both  did 
rightly.  I  sought  happiness.  Is  it  not  a  law  of  our 
nature  to  seek  for  happiness  ?  I  was  young,  I  was 
beautiful  ...  I  thought  that  I  had  found  a  nature  as 
loving,  as  apparently  passionate.  I  was  loved  indeed  ;  for 
a  little  while  .  .  .' 

She  paused. 

6 1  used  to  think,'  she  said,  c  that  no  one  could  leave  a 
woman  in  such  a  position  as  mine.  I  have  been  forsaken  ; 
I  must  have  offended  in  some  way.  Yes,  in  some  way, 
no  doubt,  I  failed  to  keep  some  law  of  our  nature,  was 


238 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


too  loving,  too  devoted,  too  exacting — I  do  not  know. 
Evil  days  have  brought  light  with  them  ?  For  a  long 
while  I  blamed  another,  now  I  am  content  to  bear  the 
whole  blame.  At  my  own  expense,  I  have  absolved  that 
other  of  whom  I  once  thought  I  had  a  right  to  complain. 
I  had  not  the  art  to  keep  him  ;  fate  has  punished  me 
heavily  for  my  lack  of  skill.  I  only  knew  how  to  love  ; 
how  can  one  keep  oneself  in  mind  when  one  loves  ?  So 
I  was  a  slave  when  I  should  have  sought  to  be  a  tyrant. 
Those  who  know  me  may  condemn  me,  but  they  will 
respect  me  too.  Pain  has  taught  me  that  I  must  not  lay 
myself  open  to  this  a  second  time.  I  cannot  understand 
how  it  is  that  I  am  living  yet,  after  the  anguish  of  that 
first  week  of  the  most  fearful  crisis  in  a  woman's  life. 
Only  from  three  years  of  loneliness  would  it  be  possible 
to  draw  strength  to  speak  of  that  time  as  I  am  speaking 
now.  Such  agony,  monsieur,  usually  ends  in  death  ;  but 
this — well,  it  was  the  agony  of  death  with  no  tomb  to 
end  it.    Oh  !  I  have  known  pain  indeed  !  • 

The  Vicomtesse  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  to  the 
ceiling  ;  and  the  cornice,  no  doubt,  received  all  the 
confidences  which  a  stranger  might  not  hear.  When  a 
woman  is  afraid  to  look  at  her  interlocutor,  there  is 
in  truth  no  gentler,  meeker,  more  accommodating  con- 
fidante than  the  cornice.  The  cornice  is  quite  an 
institution  in  the  boudoir  ;  what  is  it  but  the  confessional, 
minus  the  priest  ? 

Mme.  de  Beauséant  was  eloquent  and  beautiful  at  that 
moment  ;  nay,  6  coquettish,'  if  the  word  were  not  too 
heavy.  By  justifying  herself*  by  raising  insurmountable 
barriers  between  herself  and  love,  she  was  stimulating 
every  sentiment  in  the  man  before  her  ;  nay,  more,  the 
higher  she  set  the  goal,  the  more  conspicuous  it  grew. 
At  last,  when  her  eyes  had  lost  the  too  eloquent  expres- 
sion given  to  them  by  painful  memories,  she  let  them 
fall  on  Gaston. 

4  You  acknowledge,  do  you  not,  that  I  am  bound 


A  Forsaken  Lady  239 


to  lead  a  solitary,  self-contained  life  ? 9  she  said 
quietly. 

So  sublime  was  she  in  her  reasoning  and  her  madness, 
that  M.  de  Nueil  felt  a  wild  longing  to  throw  himself  at 
her  feet  •>  but  he  was  afraid  of  making  himself  ridiculous, 
so  he  held  his  enthusiasm  and  his  thoughts  in  check. 
He  was  afraid,  too,  that  he  might  totally  fail  to  express 
them,  and  in  no  less  terror  of  some  awful  rejection  on 
her  part,  or  of  her  mockery,  an  apprehension  which 
strikes  like  ice  to  the  most  fervid  soul.  The  revulsion 
which  led  him  to  crush  down  every  feeling  as  it  sprang 
up  in  his  heart  cost  him  the  intense  pain  that  diffident 
and  ambitious  natures  experience  in  the  frequent  crises 
when  they  are  compelled  to  stifle  their  longings.  And 
yet,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  broke  the  silence  to  say  in  a 
faltering  voice — 

c  Madame,  permit  me  to  give  way  to  one  of  the 
strongest  emotions  of  my  life,  and  own  to  all  that  you 
have  made  me  feel.  You  set  the  heart  in  me  swelling 
high  !  I  feel  within  me  a  longing  to  make  you  forget 
your  mortifications,  to  devote  my  life  to  this,  to  give  you 
love  for  all  who  ever  have  given  you  wounds  or  hate. 
But  this  is  a  very  sudden  outpouring  of  the  heart,  no- 
thing can  justify  it  to-day,  and  I  ought  not  ' 

c  Enough,  monsieur,'  said  Mme.  de  Beauséant  ;  c  we 
have  both  of  us  gone  too  far.  By  giving  you  the  sad 
reasons  for  a  refusal  which  I  am  compelled  to  give,  I 
meant  to  soften  it  and  not  to  elicit  homage.  Coquetry 
only  suits  a  happy  woman.  Believe  me,  we  must  remain 
strangers  to  each  other.  At  a  later  day  you  will  know 
that  ties  which  must  inevitably  be  broken  ought  not  to 
be  formed  at  all.' 

She  sighed  lightly,  and  her  brows  contracted,  but 
almost  immediately  grew  clear  again. 

*How  painful  it  is  for  a  woman  to  be  powerless  to 
follow  the  man  she  loves  through  all  the  phases  of  his  life  ! 
And  if  that  man  loves  her  truly,  his  heart  must  surely 


240 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


vibrate  with  pain  to  the  deep  trouble  in  hers.  Are  they 
not  twice  unhappy  ?  ' 

There  was  a  short  pause.    Then  she  rose  smiling. 

c  You  little  suspected,  when  you  came  to  Courcelles, 
that  you  were  to  hear  a  sermon,  did  you  ?  ? 

Gaston  felt  even  further  than  at  first  from  this 
extraordinary  woman.  Was  the  charm  of  that  delight- 
ful hour  due  after  all  to  the  coquetry  of  the  mistress  of 
the  house  ?  She  had  been  anxious  to  display  her  wit. 
He  bowed  stiffly  to  the  Vicomtesse,  and  went  away 
in  desperation. 

On  the  way  home  he  tried  to  detect  the  real  character 
of  a  creature  supple  and  hard  as  a  steel  spring  ;  but  he 
had  seen  her  pass  through  so  many  phases,  that  he  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  about  her.  The  tones  of  her 
voice,  too,  were  ringing  in  his  ears  j  her  gestures,  the 
little  movements  of  her  head,  and  the  varying  expression 
of  her  eyes  grew  more  gracious  in  memory,  more  fas- 
cinating as  he  thought  of  them.  The  Vicomtesse's  beauty 
shone  out  again  for  him  in  the  darkness  ;  his  reviving 
impressions  called  up  yet  others,  and  he  was  enthralled 
anew  by  womanly  charm  and  wit,  which  at  first  he  had 
not  perceived.  He  fell  to  wandering  musings,  in  which 
the  most  lucid  thoughts  grow  refractory  and  flatly 
contradict  each  other,  and  the  soul  passes  through  a 
brief  frenzy  fit.  Youth  only  can  understand  all  that 
lies  in  the  dithyrambic  outpourings  of  youth  when, 
after  a  stormy  siege  of  the  most  frantic  folly  and  coolest 
common-sense,  the  heart  finally  yields  to  the  assault  of 
the  latest  comer,  be  it  hope,  or  despair,  as  some  mys- 
terious power  determines. 

At  three-and-twenty,  diffidence  nearly  always  rules 
a  man's  conduct  ;  he  is  perplexed  with  a  young  girl's 
shyness,  a  girl's  trouble  ;  he  is  afraid  lest  he  should 
express  his  love  ill,  sees  nothing  but  difficulties,  and 
takes  alarm  at  them  ;  he  would  be  bolder  if  he  loved 
less,  for  he  has  no  confidence  in  himself,  and  with  a 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


241 


growing  sense  of  the  cost  of  happiness  comes  a  conviction 
that  the  woman  he  loves  cannot  easily  be  won  ;  perhaps, 
too,  he  is  giving  himself  up  too  entirely  to  his  own  plea- 
sure, and  fears  that  he  can  give  none  ;  and  when,  for  his 
misfortune,  his  idol  inspires  him  with  awe,  he  worships 
in  secret  and  afar,  and  unless  his  love  is  guessed,  it  dies 
away.  Then  it  often  happens  that  one  of  these  dead 
early  loves  lingers  on,  bright  with  illusions  in  many  a 
young  heart.  What  man  is  there  but  keeps  within  him 
these  virgin  memories  that  grow  fairer  every  time  they 
rise  before  him,  memories  that  hold  up  to  him  the  ideal 
of  perfect  bliss  ?  Such  recollections  are  like  children 
who  die  in  the  flower  of  childhood,  before  their  parents 
have  known  anything  of  them  but  their  smiles. 

So  M.  de  Nueil  came  home  from  Courcelles,  the  victim 
of  a  mood  fraught  with  desperate  resolutions.  Even 
now  he  felt  that  Mme.  de  Beauséant  was  one  of  the 
conditions  of  his  existence,  and  that  death  would  be  pre- 
ferable to  life  without  her.  He  was  still  young  enough 
to  feel  the  tyrannous  fascination  which  fully-developed 
womanhood  exerts  over  immature  and  impassioned 
natures  ;  and,  consequently,  he  was  to  spend  one  of 
those  stormy  nights  when  a  young  man's  thoughts  travel 
from  happiness  to  suicide  and  back  again — nights  in  which 
youth  rushes  through  a  lifetime  of  bliss  and  falls  asleep 
from  sheer  exhaustion.  Fateful  nights  are  they,  and  the 
worst  misfortune  that  can  happen  is  to  awake  a  philo- 
sopher afterwards.  M.  de  Nueil  was  far  too  deeply  in 
love  to  sleep  ;  he  rose  and  betook  to  inditing  letters,  but 
none  of  them  were  satisfactory,  and  he  burned  them  all. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  Courcelles  to  make  the 
circuit  of  her  garden  walls,  but  he  waited  till  nightfall  ; 
he  was  afraid  that  she  might  see  him.  The  instinct 
that  led  him  to  act  in  this  way  arose  out  of  so  obscure  a 
mood  of  the  soul,  that  none  but  a  young  man,  or  a  man  in 
like  case,  can  fully  understand  its  mute  ecstasies  and  its 

Q 


242  A  Forsaken  Lady 


vagaries,  matter  to  set  those  people  who  are  lucky 
enough  to  see  life  only  in  its  matter-of-fact  aspect 
shrugging  their  shoulders.  After  painful  hesitation, 
Gaston  wrote  to  Mme.  de  Beauséant.  Here  is  the 
letter,  which  may  serve  as  a  sample  of  the  epistolary 
style  peculiar  to  lovers,  a  performance  which,  like  the 
drawings  prepared  with  great  secrecy  by  children  for  the 
birthdays  of  father  or  mother,  is  found  insufferable  by 
every  mortal  except  the  recipients  : — 

c  Madame, — Your  power  over  my  heart,  my  soul,  my- 
self, is  so  great  that  my  fate  depends  wholly  upon  you  to- 
day. Do  not  throw  this  letter  into  the  fire;  be  so  kind  as 
to  read  it  through.  Perhaps  you  may  pardon  the  opening 
sentence  when  you  see  that  it  is  no  commonplace,  selfish 
declaration,  but  that  it  expresses  a  simple  fact.  Perhaps 
you  may  feel  moved,  because  I  ask  for  so  little,  by  the 
submission  of  one  who  feels  himself  so  much  beneath 
you,  by  the  influence  that  your  decision  will  exercise 
upon  my  life.  At  my  age,  madame,  I  only  know  how 
to  love,  I  am  utterly  ignorant  of  ways  of  attracting  and 
winning  a  woman's  love,  but  in  my  own  heart  I  know 
raptures  of  adoration  of  her.  I  am  irresistibly  drawn  to 
you  by  the  great  happiness  that  I  feel  through  you  ;  my 
thoughts  turn  to  you  with  the  selfish  instinct  which  bids 
us  draw  nearer  to  the  fire  of  life  when  we  find  it.  I  do 
not  imagine  that  I  am  worthy  of  you  ;  it  seems  im- 
possible that  I,  young,  ignorant,  and  shy,  could  bring 
you  one-thousandth  part  of  the  happiness  that  I  drink  in 
at  the  sound  of  your  voice  and  the  sight  of  you.  For 
me  you  are  the  only  woman  in  the  world.  I  cannot 
imagine  life  without  you,  so  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
leave  France,  and  to  risk  my  life  till  I  lose  it  in  some 
desperate  enterprise,  in  the  Indies,  in  Africa,  I  care  not 
where.  How  can  I  quell  a  love  that  knows  no  limits 
save  by  opposing  to  it  something  as  infinite  ?  Yet,  if 
you  will  allow  me  to  hope,  not  to  be  yours,  but  to  win 


A  Forsaken  Lady  243 


your  friendship,  I  will  stay.  Let  me  come,  not  so  very 
often,  if  you  require  it,  to  spend  a  few  such  hours  with 
you  as  those  stolen  hours  of  yesterday.  The  keen 
delight  of  that  brief  happiness,  to  be  cut  short  at  the 
least  over-ardent  word  from  me,  will  suffice  to  enable  me 
to  endure  the  boiling  torrent  in  my  veins.  Have  I  pre- 
sumed too  much  upon  your  generosity  by  this  entreaty 
to  suffer  an  intercourse  in  which  all  the  gain  is  mine 
alone  ?  You  could  find  ways  of  showing  the  world,  to 
which  you  sacrifice  so  much,  that  I  am  nothing  to  you  ; 
you  are  so  clever  and  so  proud  !  What  have  you  to 
fear  ?  If  I  could  only  lay  bare  my  heart  to  you  at  this 
moment,  to  convince  you  that  it  is  with  no  lurking  after- 
thought that  I  make  this  humble  request  !  Should  I  have 
told  you  that  my  love  was  boundless,  while  I  prayed  you 
to  grant  me  friendship,  if  I  had  any  hope  of  your  sharing 
this  feeling  in  the  depths  of  my  soul  ?  No,  while  I  am 
with  you,  I  will  be  whatever  you  will,  if  only  I  may  be 
with  you.  If  you  refuse  (as  you  have  the  power  to 
refuse),  I  will  not  utter  one  murmur,  I  will  go.  And  if, 
at  a  later  day,  any  other  woman  should  enter  into  my 
life,  you  will  have  proof  that  you  were  right  ;  but  if  I 
am  faithful  till  death,  you  may  feel  some  regret  perhaps. 
The  hope  of  causing  you  a  regret  will  soothe  my  agony, 
and  that  thought  shall  be  the  sole  revenge  of  a  slighted 
heart.  .  .  I 

Only  those  who  have  passed  through  all  the  exceeding 
tribulations  of  youth,  who  have  seized  on  all  the  chimeras 
with  two  white  pinions,  the  nightmare  fancies  at  the 
disposal  of  a  fervid  imagination,  can  realise  the  horrors 
that  seized  upon  Gaston  de  Nueil  when  he  had  reason  to 
suppose  that  his  ultimatum  was  in  Mme.  de  Beauséant's 
hands.  He  saw  the  Vicomtesse,  wholly  untouched, 
laughing  at  his  letter  and  his  love,  as  those  can  laugh 
who  have  ceased  to  believe  in  love.  He  could  have 
wished  to  have  his  letter  back  again.    It  was  an  absurd 


244  A  Forsaken  Lady 


letter.  There  were  a  thousand  and  one  things,  now  that 
he  came  to  think  of  it,  that  he  might  have  said,  things 
infinitely  better  and  more  moving  than  those  stilted 
phrases  of  his,  those  accursed,  sophisticated,  pretentious, 
fine-spun  phrases,  though,  luckily,  the  punctuation  had 
been  pretty  bad,  and  the  lines  shockingly  crooked.  He  tried 
not  to  think,  not  to  feel  ;  but  he  felt  and  thought,  and  was 
wretched.  If  he  had  been  thirty  years  old,  he  might  have 
got  drunk,  but  the  innocence  of  three-and-twenty  knew 
nothing  of  the  resources  of  opium  nor  of  the  expedients  of 
advanced  civilisation.  Nor  had  he  at  hand  one  of  those 
good  friends  of  the  Parisian  pattern  who  understand  so 
well  how  to  say  Pate^  non  dolet!  by  producing  a  bottle  of 
champagne,  or  alleviate  the  agony  of  suspense  by  carry- 
ing you  off  somewhere  to  make  a  night  of  it.  Capital 
fellows  are  they,  always  in  low  water  when  you  are  in 
funds,  always  off  to  some  watering-place  when  you  go 
to  look  them  up,  always  with  some  bad  bargain  in  horse- 
flesh to  sell  you  ;  it  is  true,  that  when  you  want  to 
borrow  of  them,  they  have  always  just  lost  their  last  louis 
at  play  ;  but  in  all  other  respects  they  are  the  best  fellows 
on  earth,  always  ready  to  embark  with  you  on  one  of 
the  steep  down-grades  where  you  lose  your  time,  your 
soul,  and  your  life  ! 

At  length  M.  de  Nueil  received  a  missive  through  the 
instrumentality  of  Jacques,  a  letter  that  bore  the  arms  of 
Burgundy  on  the  scented  seal,  a  letter  written  on  vellum 
notepaper. 

He  rushed  away  at  once  to  lock  himself  in,  and  read 
and  re-read  her  letter  : — 

1  You  are  punishing  me  very  severely,  monsieur,  both 
for  the  friendliness  of  my  effort  to  spare  you  a  rebuff,, 
and  for  the  attraction  which  intellect  always  has  for 
me.  I  put  confidence  in  the  generosity  of  youth,  and 
you  have  disappointed  me.  And  yet,  if  I  did  not  speak 
unreservedly    (which    would    have    been  perfectly 


A  Forsaken  Lady  245 


ridiculous),  at  any  rate  I  spoke  frankly  of  my  position,  so 
that  you  might  imagine  that  I  was  not  to  be  touched 
by  a  young  soul.  My  distress  is  the  keener  for  my 
interest  in  you.  I  am  naturally  tender-hearted  and 
kindly,  but  circumstances  force  me  to  act  unkindly. 
Another  woman  would  have  flung  your  letter,  unread, 
into  the  fire  ;  I  read  it,  and  I  am  answering  it.  My 
answer  will  make  it  clear  to  you  that  while  I  am  not 
untouched  by  the  expression  of  this  feeling  which  I  have 
inspired,  albeit  unconsciously,  I  am  still  far  from 
sharing  it,  and  the  step  which  I  am  about  to  take  will 
show  you  still  more  plainly  that  I  mean  what  I  say.  I 
wish  besides,  to  use,  for  your  welfare,  that  authority,  as 
it  were,  which  you  give  me  over  your  life  ;  and  I  desire  to 
exercise  it  this  once  to  draw  aside  the  veil  from  your  eyes. 

4 1  am  nearly  thirty  years  old,  monsieur  ;  you  are  barely 
two-and-twenty.  You  yourself  cannot  know  what  your 
thoughts  will  be  at  my  age.  The  vows  that  you  make 
so  lightly  to-day  may  seem  a  very  heavy  burden  to  you 
then.  I  am  quite  willing  to  believe  that  at  this 
moment  you  would  give  me  your  whole  life  without  a 
regret,  you  would  even  be  ready  to  die  for  a  little  brief 
happiness  ;  but  at  the  age  of  thirty  experience  will 
take  from  you  the  very  power  of  making  daily  sacrifices 
for  my  sake,  and  I  myself  should  feel  deeply  humiliated 
if  I  accepted  them.  A  day  would  come  when  every- 
thing, even  Nature,  would  bid  you  leave  me,  and  I 
have  already  told  you  that  death  is  preferable  to  de- 
sertion. Misfortune  has  taught  me  to  calculate  ;  as 
you  see,  I  am  arguing  perfectly  dispassionately.  You 
force  me  to  tell  you  that  I  have  no  love  for  you  j  I 
ought  not  to  love,  I  cannot,  and  I  will  not.  It  is  too 
late  to  yield,  as  women  yield,  to  a  blind  unreasoning 
impulse  of  the  heart,  too  late  to  be  the  mistress  whom 
you  seek.  My  consolations  spring  from  God,  not  from 
earth.  Ah,  and  besides,  with  the  melancholy  insight  of 
disappointed  love,  I  read  hearts  too  clearly  to  accept 


246  A  Forsaken  Lady 


your  proffered  friendship.  It  is  only  instinct.  I 
forgive  the  boyish  ruse,  for  which  you  are  not  responsible 
as  yet.  In  the  name  of  this  passing  fancy  of  yours,  for 
the  sake  of  your  career  and  my  own  peace  of  mind,  I 
bid  you  stay  in  your  own  country  ;  you  must  not  spoil 
a  fair  and  honourable  life  for  an  illusion  which,  by  its  very 
nature,  cannot  last.  At  a  later  day,  when  you  have 
accomplished  your  real  destiny,  in  the  fully  developed 
manhood  that  awaits  you,  you  will  appreciate  this 
answer  of  mine,  though  to-day  it  may  be  that  you 
blame  its  hardness.  You  will  turn  with  pleasure  to  an 
old  woman  whose  friendship  will  certainly  be  sweet  and 
precious  to  you  then  ;  a  friendship  untried  by  the 
extremes  of  passion  and  the  disenchanting  processes  of 
life  ;  a  friendship  which  noble  thoughts  and  thoughts  of 
religion  will  keep  pure  and  sacred.  Farewell  ;  do  my 
bidding  with  the  thought  that  your  success  will  bring  a 
gleam  of  pleasure  into  my  solitude,  and  only  think  of 
me  as  we  think  of  absent  friends.' 

Gaston  de  Nueil  read  the  letter,  and  wrote  the  follow- 
ing lines  : — 

c  Madame,— If  I  could  cease  to  love  you,  to  take  the 
chances  of  becoming  an  ordinary  man  which  you  hold 
out  to  me,  you  must  admit  that  I  should  thoroughly 
deserve  my  fate.  No,  I  shall  not  do  as  you  bid  me  ;  the 
oath  of  fidelity  which  I  swear  to  you  shall  only  be 
absolved  by  death.  Ah  !  take  my  life,  unless  indeed 
you  do  not  fear  to  carry  a  remorse  all  through  your 
own  ' 

When  the  man  returned  from  his  errand,  M.  de 
Nueil  asked  him  with  whom  he  left  the  note  ? 

*  I  gave  it  to  Mme.  la  Vicomtesse  herself,  sir  j  she 
was  in  her  carriage  and  just  about  to  start.' 

4  For  the  town  ?  ' 


A  Forsaken  Lady  247 


4 1  don't  think  so,  sir,  Mme.  la  Vicomtesse  had  post- 
horses.' 

4  Ah  !  then  she  is  going  away,'  said  the  Baron. 
i  Yes,  sir,'  the  man  answered. 

Gaston  de  Nueil  at  once  prepared  to  follow  Mme.  de 
Beauséant.  She  led  the  way  as  far  as  Geneva,  without 
a  suspicion  that  he  followed.  And  he  ?  Amid  the 
many  thoughts  that  assailed  him  during  that  journey, 
one  all-absorbing  problem  filled  his  mind — cWhy  did 
she  go  away  ?  '  Theories  grew  thickly  on  such  ground 
for  supposition,  and  naturally  he  inclined  to  the  one 
that  flattered  his  hopes — cIf  the  Vicomtesse  cares 
for  me,  a  clever  woman  would,  of  course,  choose 
Switzerland,  where  nobody  knows  either  of  us,  in  pre- 
ference to  France,  where  she  would  find  censorious 
critics.' 

An  impassioned  lover  of  a  certain  stamp  would  not 
feel  attracted  to  a  woman  clever  enough  to  choose  her 
own  ground  ;  such  women  are  too  clever.  However, 
there  is  nothing  to  prove  that  there  was  any  truth  in 
Gaston's  supposition. 

The  Vicomtesse  took  a  small  house  by  the  side 
of  the  lake.  As  soon  as  she  was  installed  in  it,  Gaston 
came  one  summer  evening  in  the  twilight.  Jacques, 
that  flunkey  in  grain,  showed  no  sign  of  surprise,  and 
announced  M.  le  Baron  de  Nueil  like  a  discreet  domestic 
well  acquainted  with  good  society.  At  the  sound  of  the 
name,  at  the  sight  of  its  owner,  Mme.  de  Beauséant 
let  her  book  fall  from  her  hanas  ;  her  surprise  gave  him 
time  to  come  close  to  her,  and  to  say  in  tones  that 
sounded  like  music  in  her  ears — 

'What  joy  it  was  to  me  to  take  the  horses  that 
brought  you  on  this  journey  !  ' 

To  have  the  inmost  desires  of  the  heart  so  fulfilled  ! 
Where  is  the  woman  who  could  resist  such  happiness  as 
this  ?  An  Italian  woman,  one  of  those  divine  creatures 
who,  psychologically,  are  as   far  removed  from  the 


248  A  Forsaken  Lady 


Parisian  as  if  they  lived  at  the  Antipodes,  a  being  who 
would  be  regarded  as  profoundly  immoral  on  this  side 
the  Alps,  an  Italian  (to  resume)  made  the  following 
comment  on  some  French  novels  which  she  had  been 
reading.  c  I  cannot  see,'  she  remarked,  c  why  these  poor 
lovers  take  such  a  time  over  coming  to  an  arrangement 
which  ought  to  be  the  affair  of  a  single  morning.5  Why 
should  not  the  novelist  take  a  hint  from  this  worthy  lady, 
and  refrain  from  exhausting  the  theme  and  the  reader  ? 
Some  few  passages  of  coquetry  it  would  certainly  be 
pleasant  to  give  in  outline;  the  story  of  Mme.  de 
Beauséant's  demurs  and  sweet  delayings,  that,  like  the 
vestal  virgins  of  antiquity,  she  might  fall  gracefully,  and 
by  lingering  over  the  innocent  raptures  of  first  love 
draw  from  it  its  utmost  strength  and  sweetness.  M.  de 
Nueil  was  at  an  age  when  a  man  is  the  dupe  of  these 
caprices,  of  the  fence  which  women  delight  to  prolong  ; 
either  to  dictate  their  own  terms,  or  to  enjoy  the  sense 
of  their  power  yet  longer,  knowing  instinctively  as  they 
do  that  it  must  soon  grow  less.  But,  after  all,  these 
little  boudoir  protocols,  less  numerous  than  those  of  the 
Congress  of  London,  are  too  small  to  be  worth  mention 
in  the  history  of  this  passion. 

For  three  years  Mme.  de  Beauséant  and  M.  de  Nueil 
lived  in  the  villa  on  the  lake  of  Geneva.  They  lived 
quite  alone,  received  no  visitors,  caused  no  talk,  rose 
late,  went  out  together  upon  the  lake,  knew,  in  short, 
the  happiness  of  which  we  all  of  us  dream.  It  was  a 
simple  little  house,  with  green  shutters,  and  broad 
balconies  shaded  with  awnings,  a  house  contrived  of  set 
purpose  for  lovers,  with  its  white  couches,  soundless 
carpets,  and  fresh  hangings,  everything  within  it  reflect- 
ing their  joy.  Every  window  looked  out  on  some  new 
view  of  the  lake  ;  in  the  far  distance  lay  the  mountains, 
fantastic  visions  of  changing  colour  and  evanescent  cloud  ; 
above  them  spread  the  sunny  sky,  before  them  stretched 
the  broad  sheet  of  water,  never  the  same  in  its  fitful 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


*49 


changes.  All  their  surroundings  seemed  to  dream  for 
them,  all  things  smiled  upon  them. 

Then  weighty  matters  recalled  M.  de  Nueil  to 
France.  His  father  and  brother  died,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  leave  Geneva.  The  lovers  bought  the  house  ; 
and  if  they  could  have  had  their  way,  they  would  have 
removed  the  hills  piecemeal,  drawn  off  the  lake  with  a 
siphon,  and  taken  everything  away  with  them. 

Mme.  de  Beauséant  followed  M.  de  Nueil.  She 
realised  her  property,  and  bought  a  considerable  estate 
near  Manerville,  adjoining  Gaston's  lands,  and  here  they 
lived  together  ;  Gaston  very  graciously  giving  up  Maner- 
ville to  his  mother  for  the  present  in  consideration  of  the 
bachelor  freedom  in  which  she  left  him. 

Mme.  de  Beauséant's  estate  was  close  to  a  little  town 
in  one  of  the  most  picturesque  spots  in  the  valley  of  the 
Auge.  Here  the  lovers  raised  barriers  between  them- 
selves and  social  intercourse,  barriers  which  no  creature 
could  overleap,  and  here  the  happy  days  of  Switzerland 
were  lived  over  again.  For  nine  whole  years  they  knew 
happiness  which  it  serves  no  purpose  to  describe  ;  happi- 
ness which  may  be  divined  from  the  outcome  of  the 
story  by  those  whose  souls  can  comprehend  poetry  and 
prayer  in  their  infinite  manifestations. 

AH  this  time  Mme.  de  Beauséant's  husband,  the  pre- 
sent Marquis  (his  father  and  elder  brother  having  died), 
enjoyed  the  soundest  health.  There  is  no  better  aid  to 
life  than  a  certain  knowledge  that  our  demise  would 
confer  a  benefit  on  some  fellow-creature.  M.  de  Beau- 
séant  was  one  of  those  ironical  and  wayward  beings 
who,  like  holders  of  life-annuities,  wake  with  an  addi- 
tional sense  of  relish  every  morning  to  a  consciousness  of 
good  health.  For  the  rest,  he  was  a  man  of  the  world, 
somewhat  methodical  and  ceremonious,  and  a  calculator 
of  consequences,  who  could  make  a  declaration  of  love  as 
quietly  as  a  lackey  announces  that  c  Madame  is  served.' 

This  brief  biographical  notice  of  his  lordship  the 


250 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


Marquis  de  Beauséant  is  given  to  explain  the  reasons 
why  it  was  impossible  for  the  Marquise  to  marry  M.  de 
Nueil. 

So,  after  a  nine  years'  lease  of  happiness,  the  sweetest 
agreement  to  which  a  woman  ever  put  her  hand,  M.  de 
Nueil  and  Mme.  de  Beauséant  were  still  in  a  position 
quite  as  natural  and  quite  as  false  as  at  the  beginning  of 
their  adventure.  And  yet  they  had  reached  a  fatal 
crisis,  which  may  be  stated  as  clearly  as  any  problem  in 
mathematics. 

Mme.  la  Comtesse  de  Nueil,  Gaston's  mother,  a 
strait-laced  and  virtuous  person,  who  had  made  the  late 
Baron  happy  in  strictly  legal  fashion,  would  never  con- 
sent to  meet  Mme.  de  Beauséant.  Mme.  de  Beauséant 
quite  understood  that  the  worthy  dowager  must  of 
necessity  be  her  enemy,  and  that  she  would  try  to  draw 
Gaston  from  his  unhallowed  and  immoral  way  of  life. 
The  Marquise  de  Beauséant  would  willingly  have  sold 
her  property  and  gone  back  to  Geneva,  but  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  do  it;  it  would  mean  that  she  distrusted  M. 
de  Nueil.  Moreover,  he  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  this 
very  Valleroy  estate,  where  he  was  making  plantations 
and  improvements.  She  would  not  deprive  him  of  a 
piece  of  pleasurable  routine-work,  such  as  women  always 
wish  for  their  husbands,  and  even  for  their  lovers. 

A  Mlle,  de  Rodière,  twenty-two  years  of  age,  an  heiress 
with  a  rent-roll  of  forty  thousand  livres,  had  come  to  live 
in  the  neighbourhood.  Gaston  always  met  her  at 
Manerville  whenever  he  was  obliged  to  go  thither. 
These  various  personages  being  to  each  other  as  the 
terms  of  a  proportion  sum,  the  following  letter  will 
throw  light  on  the  appalling  problem  which  Mme. 
de  Beauséant  had  been  trying  for  the  past  month 
to  solve  : — 

1  My  beloved  angel,  it  seems  like  nonsense,  does  it 
not,  to  write  to  you  when  there  is  nothing  to  keep 


A  Forsaken  Lady  251 


us  apart,  when  a  caress  so  often  takes  the  place  of  words, 
and  words  too  are  caresses  ?  Ah,  well,  no  love.  There 
are  some  things  that  a  woman  cannot  say  when  she  is 
face  to  face  with  the  man  she  loves  ;  at  the  bare  thought 
of  them  her  voice  fails  her,  and  the  blood  goes  back  to 
her  heart  ;  she  has  no  strength,  no  intelligence  left.  It 
hurts  me  to  feel  like  this  when  you  are  near  .me,  and  it 
happens  often.  I  feel  that  my  heart  should  be  wholly 
sincere  for  you  ;  that  I  should  disguise  no  thought,  how- 
ever transient,  in  my  heart  ;  and  I  love  the  sweet  care- 
lessness, which  suits  me  so  well,  too  much  to  endure 
this  embarrassment  and  constraint  any  longer.  So  I  will 
tell  you  about  my  anguish — yes,  it  is  anguish.  Listen  to 
me  !  do  not  begin  with  the  little  u  Tut,  tut,  tut,"  that  you 
use  to  silence  me,  an  impertinence  that  I  love,  because 
anything  from  you  pleases  me.  Dear  soul  from  heaven, 
wedded  to  mine,  let  me  first  tell  you  that  you  have 
effaced  all  memory  of  the  pain  that  once  was  crushing 
the  life  out  of  me.  I  did  not  know  what  love  was  before 
I  knew  you.  Only  the  candour  of  your  beautiful  young 
life,  only  the  purity  of  that  great  soul  of  yours,  could 
satisfy  the  requirements  of  an  exacting  woman's  heart. 
Dear  love,  how  very  often  I  have  thrilled  with  joy  to 
think  that  in  these  nine  long,  swift  years,  my  jealousy 
has  not  been  once  awakened.  All  the  flowers  of  your 
soul  have  been  mine,  all  your  thoughts.  There  has  not 
been  the  faintest  cloud  in  our  heaven  ;  we  have  not 
known  what  sacrifice  is  ;  we  have  always  acted  on  the 
impulses  of  our  hearts.  I  have  known  happiness,  infinite 
for  a  woman.  Will  the  tears  that  drench  this  sheet  tell 
you  all  my  gratitude  ?  I  could  wish  that  I  had  knelt  to 
write  the  words  ! — Well,  out  of  this  felicity  has  arisen 
torture  more  terrible  than  the  pain  of  desertion.  Dear, 
there  are  very  deep  recesses  in  a  woman's  heart  ;  how 
deep  in  my  own  heart,  I  did  not  know  myself  until 
to-day,  as  I  did  not  know  the  whole  extent  of  love. 
The  greatest  misery  which  could  overwhelm  us  is  a  light 


252 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


burden  compared  with  the  mere  thought  of  harm  for 
him  whom  we  love.  And  how  if  we  cause  the  harm, 
is  it  not  enough  to  make  one  die  ?  .  .  .  This  is  the 
thought  that  is  weighing  upon  me.  But  it  brings  in  its 
train  another  thought  that  is  heavier  far,  a  thought  that 
tarnishes  the  glory  of  love,  and  slays  it,  and  turns  it  into 
a  humiliation  which  sullies  life  as  long  as  it  lasts.  You 
are  thirty  years  old  ;  I  am  forty.  What  dread  this 
difference  in  age  calls  up  in  a  woman  who  loves  !  It  is 
possible  that,  first  of  all  unconsciously,  afterwards  in 
earnest,  you  have  felt  the  sacrifices  that  you  have  made 
by  renouncing  all  in  the  world  for  me.  Perhaps  you 
have  thought  of  your  future  from  the  social  point  of 
view,  of  the  marriage  which  would,  of  course,  increase 
your  fortune,  and  give  you  avowed  happiness  and  chil- 
dren who  would  inherit  your  wealth  ;  perhaps  you  have 
thought  of  reappearing  in  the  world,  and  filling  your 
place  there  honourably.  And  then,  if  so,  you  must  have 
repressed  those  thoughts,  and  felt  glad  to  sacrifice  heiress 
and  fortune  and  a  fair  future  to  me  without  my  knowledge. 
In  your  young  man's  generosity,  you  must  have  resolved 
to  be  faithful  to  the  vows  which  bind  us  each  to  each  in 
the  sight  of  God.  My  past  pain  has  risen  up  before 
your  mind,  and  the  misery  from  which  you  rescued  me 
has  been  my  protection.  To  owe  your  love  to  your 
pity  !  The  thought  is  even  more  painful  to  me  than 
the  fear  of  spoiling  your  life  for  you.  The  man  who 
can  bring  himself  to  stab  his  mistress  is  very  charitable 
if  he  gives  her  her  deathblow  while  she  is  happy  and  igno- 
rant of  evil,  while  illusions  are  in  full  blossom.  .  .  .  Yes, 
death  is  preferable  to  the  two  thoughts  which  have 
secretly  saddened  the  hours  for  several  days.  To-day, 
when  you  asked  u  What  ails  you  ?  "  so  tenderly,  the 
sound  of  your  voice  made  me  shiver.  I  thought  that, 
after  your  wont,  you  were  reading  my  very  soul,  and  I 
waited  for  your  confidence  to  come,  thinking  that  my 
presentiments  had  come  true,  and  that  I  had  guessed  at 


A  Forsaken  Lady  253 

all  that  was  going  on  in  your  mind.  Then  I  began  to 
think  over  certain  little  things  that  you  always  do  for 
me,  and  I  thought  I  could  see  in  you  the  sort  of  affecta- 
tion by  which  a  man  betrays  a  consciousness  that  his 
loyalty  is  becoming  a  burden.  And  in  that  moment  I 
paid  very  dear  for  my  happiness.  I  felt  that  Nature 
always  demands  the  price  for  the  treasure  called  love. 
Briefly,  has  not  fate  separated  us  ?  Can  you  have  said, 
4 'Sooner  or  later  I  must  leave  poor  Claire;  why  not 
separate  in  time  ?"  I  read  that  thought  in  the  depths  of 
your  eyes,  and  went  away  to  cry  by  myself.  Hiding  my 
tears  from  you  !  the  first  tears  that  I  have  shed  for  sorrow 
for  these  ten  years  ;  I  am  too  proud  to  let  you  see  them, 
but  I  did  not  reproach  you  in  the  least. 

c  Yes,  you  are  right.  I  ought  not  to  be  so  selfish  as  to 
bind  your  long  and  brilliant  career  to  my  so-soon  out- 
worn life.  .  .  .  And  yet — how  if  I  have  been  mistaken? 
How  if  I  have  taken  your  love  melancholy  for  a  delibera- 
tion ?  Oh,  my  love,  do  not  leave  me  in  suspense  ; 
punish  this  jealous  wife  of  yours,  but  give  her  back  the 
sense  of  her  love  and  yours  ;  the  whole  woman  lies  in 
that — that  consciousness  sanctifies  everything. 

*  Since  your  mother  came,  since  you  paid  a  visit  to 
Mlle,  de  Rodière,  I  have  been  gnawed  by  doubts  dis- 
honouring to  us  both.    Make  me  suffer  for  this,  but  do 
not  deceive  me  ;  I  want  to  know  everything  that  your 
mother  said  and  that  you  think  !    if  you  have  hesitated 
between  some  alternative  and  me,  I  give  you  back  your 
liberty.  ...  I  will  not  let  you  know  what  happens  to 

me  ;  I  will  not  shed  tears  for  you  to  see  ;  only — I  will 
not  see  you  again.  ...  Ah  !  I  cannot  go  on,  my  heart 

is  breaking  .  .  . 

■       •  ••••••• 

I  have  been  sitting  benumbed  and  stupid  for  some 
moments.  Dear  love,  I  do  not  find  that  any  feeling  of 
pride  rises  against  you  ;  you  are  so  kind-hearted,  so 
open  j  you  would  find  it  impossible  to  hurt  me  or  to 


254  A  Forsaken  Lady 


deceive  me  ;  and  you  will  tell  me  the  truth,  however 
cruel  it  may  be.  Do  you  wish  me  to  encourage  your 
confession  ?  Weil,  then,  heart  of  mine,  I  shall  find 
comfort  in  a  woman's  thought.  Has  not  the  youth  of 
your  being  been  mine,  your  sensitive,  wholly  gracious, 
beautiful,  and  delicate  youth  ?  No  woman  shall  find 
henceforth  the  Gaston  whom  I  have  known,  nor  the 
delicious  happiness  that  he  has  given  me.  .  .  .  No; 
you  will  never  love  again  as  you  have  loved,  as  you  love 
me  now  ;  no,  I  shall  never  have  a  rival,  it  is  impossible. 
There  will  be  no  bitterness  in  my  memories  of  our  love, 
and  I  shall  think  of  nothing  else.  It  is  out  of  your 
power  to  enchant  any  woman  henceforth  by  the  childish 
provocations,  the  charming  ways  of  a  young  heart,  the 
soul's  winning  charm,  the  body's  grace,  the  swift  com- 
munion of  rapture,  the  whole  divine  cortège  of  young; 
love,  in  fine. 

c  Oh,  you  are  a  man  now,  you  will  obey  your  destiny, 
weighing  and  considering  all  things.  You  will  have 
cares,  and  anxieties,  and  ambitions,  and  concerns  that 
will  rob  her  of  the  unchanging  smile  that  made  your 
lips  fair  for  me.  The  tones  that  were  always  so  sweet 
for  me  will  be  troubled  at  times  ;  and  your  eyes  that 
lighted  up  with  radiance  from  heaven  at  the  sight  of  me, 
will  often  be  lustreless  for  her.  And  besides,  as  it  is 
impossible  to  love  you  as  I  love  you,  you  will  never  care 
for  that  woman  as  you  have  cared  for  me.  She  will- 
never  keep  a  constant  watch  over  herself  as  I  have  done;, 
she  will  never  study  your  happiness  at  every  moment 
with  an  intuition  which  has  never  failed  me.  Ah,  yes, 
the  man,  the  heart  and  soul,  which  I  shall  have  known  will- 
exist  no  longer.  I  shall  bury  him  deep  in  my  memory^ 
that  I  may  have  the  joy  of  him  still  ;  I  shall  live  happy  in 
that  fair  past  life  of  ours,  a  life  hidden  from  all  but  our 
inmost  selves. 

6  Dear  treasure  of  mine,  if  all  the  while  no  least 
thought  of  liberty  has  risen  in  your  mind,  if  my  love  is 


A  Forsaken  Lady  255 

no  burden  on  you,  if  my  fears  are  chimerical,  if  I  am 
still  your  Eve — the  one  woman  in  the  world  for  you — 
come  to  me  as  soon  as  you  have  read  this  letter,  come 
quickly  !  Ah,  in  one  moment  I  will  love  you  more 
than  I  have  ever  loved  you,  I  think,  in  these  nine  years. 
After  enduring  the  needless  torture  of  these  doubts  of 
which  I  am  accusing  myself,  every  added  day  of  love,  yes, 
every  single  day,  will  be  a  whole  lifetime  of  bliss.  So 
speak,  and  speak  openly  ;  do  not  deceive  me,  it  would  be 
a  crime.  Tell  me,  do  you  wish  for  your  liberty  ?  Have 
you  thought  of  all  that  a  man's  life  means  ?  Is  there 
any  regret  in  your  mind  ?  That  /  should  cause  you  a 
regret  !  I  should  die  of  it.  I  have  said  it  :  I  love  you 
enough  to  set  your  happiness  above  mine,  your  life 
before  my  own.  Leave  on  one  side,  if  you  can,  the 
wealth  of  memories  of  our  nine  years'  happiness,  that 
they  may  not  influence  your  decision,  but  speak!  I 
submit  myself  to  you  as  to  God,  the  one  Consoler  who 
remains  if  you  forsake  me.' 

When  Mme.  de  Beauséant  knew  that  her  letter  was 
in  M.  de  Nueil's  hands,  she  sank  in  such  utter  prostra- 
tion, the  over-pressure  of  many  thoughts  so  numbed 
her  faculties,  that  she  seemed  almost  drowsy.  At  any 
rate,  she  was  suffering  from  a  pain  not  always  propor- 
tioned in  its  intensity  to  a  woman's  strength  ;  pain 
which  women  alone  know.  And  while  the  unhappy 
Marquise  awaited  her  doom,  M.  de  Nueil,  reading  her 
letter,  felt  that  he  was  '  in  a  very  difficult  position,'  to 
use  the  expression  that  young  men  apply  to  a  crisis  of 
this  kind. 

By  this  time  he  had  all  but  yielded  to  his  mother's  im- 
portunities and  to  the  attractions  of  Mlle,  de  la  Rodière, 
a  somewhat  insignificant,  pink-and-white  young  person, 
as  straight  as  a  poplar.  It  is  true  that,  in  accordance 
with  the  rules  laid  down  for  marriageable  young  ladies, 
she  scarcely  opened  her  mouth,  but  her  rent-roll  of 


256  A  Forsaken  Lady 

forty  thousand  livres  spoke  quite  sufficiently  for  her. 
Mme.  de  Nueil,  with  a  mothers  sincere  affection,  tried 
to  entangle  her  son  in  virtuous  courses.  She  called  his 
attention  to  the  fact  that  it  was  a  flattering  distinction 
to  be  preferred  by  Mlle,  de  la  Rodière,  who  had  refused 
so  many  great  matches  ;  it  was  quite  time,  she  urged, 
that  he  should  think  of  his  future,  such  a  good  oppor- 
tunity might  not  repeat  itself,  some  day  he  would  have 
eighty  thousand  livres  of  income  from  land  ;  money 
made  anything  bearable  ;  if  Mme.  de  Beauséant  loved 
him  for  his  own  sake,  she  ought  to  be  the  first  to  urge 
him  to  marry.  In  short,  the  well-intentioned  mother 
forgot  no  arguments  which  the  feminine  intellect  can 
bring  to  bear  upon  the  masculine  mind,  and  by  these 
means  she  had  brought  her  son  into  a  wavering  con- 
dition. 

Mme.  de  Beauséant's  letter  arrived  just  as  Gaston's 
love  of  her  was  holding  out  against  the  temptations  of  a 
settled  life  conformable  to  received  ideas.  That  letter 
decided  the  day.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  break  off 
with  the  Marquise  and  to  marry. 

6  One  must  live  a  man's  life,'  said  he  to  himself. 

Then  followed  some  inkling  of  the  pain  that  this 
decision  would  give  to  Mme.  de  Beauséant.  The  man's 
vanity  and  the  lover's  conscience  further  exaggerated 
this  pain,  and  a  sincere  pity  for  her  seized  upon  him. 
All  at  once  the  immensity  of  the  misery  became  apparent 
to  him,  and  he  thought  it  necessary  and  charitable  to 
deaden  the  deadly  blow.  He  hoped  to  bring  Mme.  de 
Beauséant  to  a  calm  frame  of  mind  by  gradually  recon- 
ciling her  to  the  idea  of  separation  ;  while  Mlle,  de  la 
Rodière,  always  like  a  shadowy  third  between  them, 
should  be  sacrificed  to  her  at  first,  only  to  be  imposed 
upon  her  later.  His  marriage  should  take  place  later, 
in  obedience  to  Mme.  de  Beauséant's  expressed  wish. 
He  went  so  far  as  to  enlist  the  Marquise's  nobleness  and 
pride  and  all  the  great  qualities  of  her  nature  to  help 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


him  to  succeed  in  this  compassionate  design.  He  would 
write  a  letter  at  once  to  allay  her  suspicions.  A  letter  ! 
For  a  woman  with  the  most  exquisite  feminine  percep- 
tion, as  well  as  the  intuition  of  passionate  love,  a  letter 
in  itself  was  a  sentence  of  death. 

So  when  Jacques  came  and  brought  Mme.  de  Beau- 
séant  a  sheet  of  paper  folded  in  a  triangle,  she  trembled, 
poor  woman,  like  a  snared  swallow.  A  mysterious 
sensation  of  physical  cold  spread  from  head  to  foot, 
wrapping  her  about  in  an  icy  winding  sheet.  If  he  did 
not  rush  to  her  feet,  if  he  did  not  come  to  her  in  tears, 
and  pale,  and  like  a  lover,  she  knew  that  all  was  lost. 
And  yet,  so  many  hopes  are  there  in  the  heart  of  a 
woman  who  loves,  that  she  is  only  slain  by  stab  after 
stab,  and  loves  on  till  the  last  drop  of  life-blood  drains 
away. 

c  Does  madame  need  anything  ?  '  Jacques  asked  gently, 
as  he  went  away. 

*  No,'  she  said. 

*  Poor  fellow  ! 9  she  thought,  brushing  a  tear  from  her 
eyes,  c  he  guesses  my  feelings,  servant  though  he  is  !  ' 

She  read  :  c  My  beloved,  you  are  inventing  idle  terrors 
for  yourself  .  .  The  Marquise  gazed  at  the  words, 
and  a  thick  mist  spread  before  her  eyes.  A  voice  in  her 
heart  cried,  c  He  lies  !  ' — Then  she  glanced  down  the 
page  with  the  clairvoyant  eagerness  of  passion,  and  read 
these  words  at  the  foot,  f  Nothing  has  been  decided  as 
yet  .  .  Turning  to  the  other  side  with  convulsive 
quickness,  she  saw  the  mind  of  the  writer  distinctly 
through  the  intricacies  of  the  wording  ;  this  was  no 
spontaneous  outburst  of  love.  She  crushed  it  in  her 
fingers,  twisted  it,  tore  it  with  her  teeth,  flung  it  in  the 
fire,  and  cried  aloud, c  Ah  !  base  that  he  is  !  I  was  his, 
and  he  had  ceased  to  love  me  !  ' 

She  sank  half  dead  upon  the  couch. 

M.  de  Nueil  went  out  as  soon  as  he  had  written  his 

R 


258  A  Forsaken  Lady 


letter.  When  he  came  back,  Jacques  met  him  on  the 
threshold  with  a  note.  '  Madame  la  Marquise  has  left 
the  chateau,'  said  the  man. 

M.  de  Nueil,  in  amazement,  broke  the  seal  and  read  : — 

4  Madame, — If  I  could  cease  to  love  you,  to  take  the 
chances  of  becoming  an  ordinary  man  which  you  hold 
out  to  me,  you  must  admit  that  I  should  thoroughly 
deserve  my  fate.  No,  I  shall  not  do  as  you  bid  me  ;  the 
oath  of  fidelity  which  I  swear  to  you  shall  only  be 
absolved  by  death.  Ah  !  take  my  life,  unless  indeed 
you  do  not  fear  to  carry  a  remorse  all  through  your 
own  .  .  .* 

It  was  his  own  letter,  written  to  the  Marquise  as  she 
set  out  for  Geneva  nine  years  before.  At  the  foot  of  it 
Claire  de  Bourgogne  had  written,  4  Monsieur,  you  are 
free.' 

M.  de  Nueil  went  to  his  mother  at  Manerville.  In 
less  than  three  weeks  he  married  Mile.  Stephanie  de  la 
Rodière. 

If  this  commonplace  story  of  real  life  ended  here,  it 
would  be  to  some  extent  a  sort  of  mystification.  The 
first  man  you  meet  can  tell  you  a  better.  But  the  wide- 
spread fame  of  the  catastrophe  (for,  unhappily,  this  is  a 
true  tale),  and  all  the  memories  which  it  may  arouse  in 
those  who  have  known  the  divine  delights  of  infinite 
passion,  and  lost  them  by  their  own  deed,  or  through  the 
cruelty  of  fate, — these  things  may  perhaps  shelter  the 
story  from  criticism. 

Mme.  la  Marquise  de  Beauséant  never  left  Valleroy 
after  her  parting  from  M.  de  Nueil.  After  his  marriage 
she  still  continued  to  live  there,  for  some  inscrutable 
woman's  reason  ;  any  woman  is  at  liberty  to  assign  the 
one  which  most  appeals  to  her.  Claire  de  Bourgogne 
lived  in  such  complete  retirement  that  none  of  the 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


259 


servants,  save  Jacques  and  her  own  woman,  ever  saw 
their  mistress.  She  required  absolute  silence  all  about 
her,  and  only  left  her  room  to  go  to  the  chapel  on  the 
Valleroy  estate,  whither  a  neighbouring  priest  came  to 
say  mass  every  morning. 

The  Comte  de  Nueil  sank  a  few  days  after  his 
marriage  into  something  like  conjugal  apathy,  which 
might  be  interpreted  to  mean  happiness  or  unhappiness 
equally  easily. 

c  My  son  is  perfectly  happy,5  his  mother  said  every- 
where. 

Mme.  Gaston  de  Nueil,  like  a  great  many  young 
women,  was  a  rather  colourless  character,  sweet  and 
passive.  A  month  after  her  marriage  she  had  expecta- 
tions of  becoming  a  mother.  All  this  was  quite  in 
accordance  with  ordinary  views.  M.  de  Nueil  was  very 
nice  to  her  ;  but  two  months  after  his  separation  from 
the  Marquise,  he  grew  notably  thoughtful  and  abstracted. 
But  then  he  always  had  been  serious,  his  mother  said. 

After  seven  months  of  this  tepid  happiness,  a  little 
thing  occurred,  one  of  those  seemingly  small  matters 
which  imply  such  great  development  of  thought  and 
such  widespread  trouble  of  soul,  that  only  the  bare  fact 
can  be  recorded  ;  the  interpretation  of  it  must  be  left  to 
the  fancy  of  each  individual  mind.  One  day,  when  M. 
de  Nueil  had  been  shooting  over  the  lands  of  Manerville 
and  Valleroy,  he  crossed  Mme.  de  Beauséant's  park  on 
his  way  home,  summoned  Jacques,  and  when  the  man 
came,  asked  him,  '  Whether  the  Marquise  was  as  fond  of 
game  as  ever  ?  ! 

Jacques,  answering  in  the  affirmative,  Gaston  offered 
him  a  good  round  sum  (accompanied  by  plenty  of 
specious  reasoning)  for  a  very  little  service.  Would  he 
set  aside  for  the  Marquise  the  game  that  the  Count 
would  bring  ?  It  seemed  to  Jacques  to  be  a  matter  of  no 
great  importance  whether  the  partridge  on  which  his 
mistress  dined  had  been  shot  by  her  keeper  or  by  M.  de 


i6o  A  Forsaken  Lady 


Nueil,  especially  since  the  latter  particularly  wished  that 
the  Marquise  should  know  nothing  about  it. 

cIt  was  killed  on  her  land,'  said  the  Count,  and  for 
some  days  Jacques  lent  himself  to  the  harmless  deceit. 
Day  after  day  M.  de  Nueil  went  shooting,  and  came 
back  at  dinner-time  with  an  empty  bag.  A  whole 
week  went  by  in  this  way.  Gaston  grew  bold  enough 
to  write  a  long  letter  to  the  Marquise,  and  had  it  con- 
veyed to  her.  It  was  returned  to  him  unopened.  The 
Marquise's  servant  brought  it  back  about  nightfall.  The 
Count,  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  listening,  while  his 
wife  at  the  piano  mangled  a  Caprice  of  Hérold's,  suddenly 
sprang  up  and  rushed  out  to  the  Marquise,  as  if  he  were 
flying  to  an  assignation.  He  dashed  through  a  well- 
known  gap  into  the  park,  and  went  slowly  along  the 
avenues,  stopping  now  and  again  for  a  little  to  still  the 
loud  beating  of  his  heart.  Smothered  sounds  as  he  came 
nearer  the  chateau  told  him  that  the  servants  must  be 
at  supper,  and  he  went  straight  to  Mme.  de  Beauséant's 
room. 

Mme.  de  Beauséant  never  left  her  bedroom.  M.  de 
Nueil  could  gain  the  doorway  without  making  the 
slightest  sound.  There,  by  the  light  of  two  wax  candles, 
he  saw  the  thin,  white  Marquise  in  a  great  armchair  ; 
her  head  was  bowed,  her  hands  hung  listlessly,  her  eyes 
gazing  fixedlv  at  some  object  which  she  did  not  seem  to 
see.  Her  whole  attitude  spoke  of  hopeless  pain.  There 
was  a  vague  something  like  hope  in  her  bearing,  but  it 
was  impossible  to  say  whither  Claire  de  Bourgogne  was 
looking — forwards  to  the  tomb  or  backwards  into  the 
past.  Perhaps  M.  de  NueiPs  tears  glittered  in  the  deep 
shadows  ;  perhaps  his  breathing  sounded  faintly  ;  perhaps 
unconsciously  he  trembled,  or  again  it  may  have  been 
impossible  that  he  should  stand  there,  his  presence 
unfelt  by  that  quick  sense  which  grows  to  be  an  instinct, 
the  glory,  the  delight,  the  proof  of  perfect  love.  How- 
ever it  was,  Mme.  de  Beauséant  slowly  turned  her  face 


A  Forsaken  Lady  261 


towards  the  doorway,  and  beheld  her  lover  of  bygone  days. 
Then  Gaston  de  Nueil  came  forward  a  few  paces. 

*  If  you  come  any  further,  sir,'  exclaimed  the  Marquise, 
growing  paler,  i  I  shall  fling  myself  out  of  the  window  !  ' 

She  sprang  to  the  window,  flung  it  open,  and  stood 
with  one  foot  on  the  ledge,  her  hand  upon  the  iron 
balustrade,  her  face  turned  towards  Gaston. 

4  Go  out  !  go  out  ! 9  she  cried,  c  or  I  will  throw  myself 
over.' 

At  that  dreadful  cry  the  servants  began  to  stir,  and 
M.  de  Nueil  fled  like  a  criminal. 

When  he  reached  his  home  again  he  wrote  a  few  lines 
and  gave  them  to  his  own  man,  telling  him  to  give  the 
letter  himself  into  Mme.  de  Beauséant's  hands,  and  to 
say  that  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death  for  his  master. 
The  messenger  went.  M.  de  Nueil  went  back  to  the 
drawing-room  where  his  wife  was  still  murdering  the 
Caprice^  and  sat  down  to  wait  till  the  answer  came. 
An  hour  later,  when  the  Caprice  had  come  to  an  end, 
and  the  husband  and  wife  sat  in  silence  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  hearth,  the  man  came  back  from  Valleroy  and 
gave  his  master  his  own  letter,  unopened. 

M.  de  Nueil  went  into  a  small  room  beyond  the 
drawing-room,  where  he  had  left  his  rifle,  and  shot 
himself. 

The  swift  and  fatal  ending  of  the  drama,  contrary  as 
it  is  to  all  the  habits  of  young  France,  is  only  what 
might  have  been  expected.  Those  who  have  closely 
observed,  or  known  for  themselves  by  delicious  ex- 
perience, all  that  is  meant  by  the  perfect  union  of  two 
beings,  will  understand  Gaston  de  NueiPs  suicide  per- 
fectly well.  A  woman  does  not  bend  and  form  herself  in 
a  day  to  the  caprices  of  passion.  The  pleasure  of  loving, 
like  some  rare  flower,  needs  the  most  careful  ingenuity 
of  culture.  Time  alone,  and  two  souls  attuned  each  to 
each,  can  discover  all  its  resources,  and  call  into  being 
all  the  tender  and  delicate  delights  for  which  we  are 


262 


A  Forsaken  Lady 


steeped  in  a  thousand  superstitions,  imagining  them  to  be 
inherent  in  the  heart  that  lavishes  them  upon  us.  It  is 
this  wonderful  response  of  one  nature  to  another,  this 
religious  belief,  this  certainty  of  finding  peculiar  or 
excessive  happiness  in  the  presence  of  one  we  love, 
that  accounts  in  part  for  perdurable  attachments  and 
long-lived  passion.  If  a  woman  possesses  the  genius  of 
her  sex,  love  never  comes  to  be  a  matter  of  use  and 
wont.  She  brings  all  her  heart  and  brain  to  love,  clothes 
her  tenderness  in  forms  so  varied,  there  is  such  art  in  her 
most  natural  moments,  or  so  much  nature  in  her  art, 
that  in  absence  her  memory  is  almost  as  potent  as  her 
presence.  All  other  women  are  as  shadows  compared 
with  her.  Not  until  we  have  lost  or  known  the  dread 
of  losing  a  love  so  vast  and  glorious,  do  we  prize  it  at  its 
just  worth.  And  if  a  man  who  has  once  possessed  this 
love  shuts  himself  out  from  it  by  his  own  act  and  deed, 
and  sinks  to  some  loveless  marriage  ;  if  by  some  incident, 
hidden  in  the  obscurity  of  married  life,  the  woman  with 
whom  he  hoped  to  know  the  same  felicity  makes  it  clear 
that  it  will  never  be  revived  for  him  ;  if,  with  the  sweet- 
ness of  divine  love  still  on  his  lips,  he  has  dealt  a  deadly 
wound  to  her^  his  wife  in  truth,  whom  he  forsook  for  a 
social  chimera, — then  he  must  either  die  or  take  refuge 
in  a  materialistic,  selfish,  and  heartless  philosophy,  from 
which  impassioned  souls  shrink  in  horror. 

As  for  Mme.  de  Beauséant,  she  doubtless  did  not 
imagine  that  her  friend's  despair  could  drive  him  to 
suicide,  when  he  had  drunk  deep  of  love  for  nine 
years.  Possibly  she  may  have  thought  that  she  alone 
was  to  suffer.  At  any  rate,  she  did  quite  rightly  to 
refuse  the  most  humiliating  of  all  positions  ;  a  wife 
may  stoop  for  weighty  social  reasons  to  a  kind  of  com- 
promise which  a  mistress  is  bound  to  hold  in  abhorrence, 
for  in  the  purity  of  her  passion  lies  all  its  justification, 

AngoulÊme,  Septtmber  1832. 


LA  GRENADIÈRE 


To  D.  W. 

La  Grenadière  is  a  little  house  on  the  right  bank  of 
the  Loire  as  you  go  down  stream,  about  a  mile  below 
the  bridge  of  Tours.  At  this  point  the  river,  broad  as 
a  lake,  and  covered  with  scattered  green  islands,  flows 
between  two  lines  of  cliff,  where  country  houses  built 
uniformly  of  white  stone  stand  among  their  gardens 
and  vineyards.  The  finest  fruit  in  the  world  ripens  there 
with  a  southern  exposure.  The  patient  toil  of  many 
generations  has  cut  terraces  in  the  cliff,  so  that  the  face 
of  the  rock  reflects  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  the  produce 
of  hot  climates  may  be  grown  out  of  doors  in  an  arti- 
ficially high  temperature. 

A  church  spire,  rising  out  of  one  of  the  shallower 
dips  in  the  line  of  cliff,  marks  the  little  village  of  Saint- 
Cyr,  to  which  the  scattered  houses  all  belong.  And  yet 
a  little  further  the  Choisille  flows  into  the  Loire, 
through  a  fertile  valley  cut  in  the  long  low  downs. 

La  Grenadière  itself,  halfway  up  the  hillside,  and 
about  a  hundred  paces  from  the  church,  is  one  of  those 
old-fashioned  houses  dating  back  some  two  or  three 
hundred  years,  which  you  find  in  every  picturesque  spot 
in  Touraine.  A  fissure  in  the  rock  affords  convenient 
space  for  a  flight  of  steps  descending  gradually  to  the 
4  dike' — the  local  name  for  the  embankment  made  at  the 
foot  of  the  cliffs  to  keep  the  Loire  in  its  bed,  and  serve 

268 


264 


La  Grenadière 


as  a  causeway  for  the  high  road  from  Paris  to  Nantes. 
At  the  top  of  the  steps  a  gate  opens  upon  a  narrow 
stony  footpath  between  two  terraces,  for  here  the  soil  is 
banked  up,  and  walls  are  built  to  prevent  landslips. 
These  earthworks,  as  it  were,  are  crowned  with  trellises 
and  espaliers,  so  that  the  steep  path  that  lies  at  the  foot 
of  the  upper  wall  is  almost  hidden  by  the  trees  that  grow 
on  the  top  of  the  lower,  upon  which  it  lies.  The  view 
of  the  river  widens  out  before  you  at  every  step  as  you 
climb  to  the  house. 

At  the  end  you  come  to  a  second  gateway,  a  Gothic 
archway  covered  with  simple  ornament,  now  crumbling 
into  ruin  and  overgrown  with  wildflowers — moss  and 
ivy,  wallflowers  and  pellitory.  Every  stone  wall  on  the 
hillside  is  decked  with  this  ineradicable  plant-life, 
which  springs  up  along  the  cracks  between  the  courses 
of  masonry,  tracing  out  the  lines  afresh  with  new 
wreaths  for  every  time  of  year. 

The  worm-eaten  gate  gives  into  a  little  garden,  a  strip 
of  turf,  a  few  trees,  and  a  wilderness  of  flowers  and  rose 
bushes — a  garden  won  from  the  rock  on  the  highest 
terrace  of  all,  with  the  dark,  old  balustrade  along  its 
edge.  Opposite  the  gateway,  a  wooden  summer-house 
stands  against  the  neighbouring  wall,  the  posts  are 
covered  with  jessamine  and  honeysuckle,  vines  and 
clematis. 

The  house  itself  stands  in  the  middle  of  this  highest 
garden,  above  a  vine-covered  flight  of  steps,  with  an 
arched  doorway  beneath  that  leads  to  vast  cellars  hollowed 
out  in  the  rock.  All  about  the  dwelling  trellised  vines 
and  pomegranate- trees  (the  grenadiers^  which  give  the 
name  to  the  little  close)  are  growing  out  in  the  open 
air.  The  front  of  the  house  consists  of  two  large 
windows  on  either  side  of  a  very  rustic-looking  house 
door,  and  three  dormer  windows  in  the  roof — a  slate 
roof  with  two  gables,  prodigiously  high-pitched  in  pro- 
portion to  the  low  ground-floor.     The  house  walls  are 


La  Grenadière 


265 


washed  with  yellow  colour;  and  door,  and  first-floor 
shutters,  and  the  Venetian  shutters  of  the  attic  windows, 
all  are  painted  green. 

Entering  the  house,  you  find  yourself  in  a  little  lobby 
with  a  crooked  staircase  straight  in  front  of  you.  It  is 
a  crazy  wooden  structure,  the  spiral  balusters  are  brown 
with  age,  and  the  steps  themselves  take  a  new  angle  at 
every  turn.  The  great  old-fashioned  panelled  dining- 
room,  floored  with  square  white  tiles  from  Château- 
Regnault,  is  on  your  right  ;  to  the  left  is  the  sitting- 
room,  equally  large,  but  here  the  walls  are  not  panelled  ; 
they  have  been  covered  instead  with  a  saffron-coloured 
paper,  bordered  with  green.  The  walnut-wood  rafters 
are  left  visible,  and  the  intervening  spaces  filled  with  a 
kind  of  white  plaster. 

The  first  story  consists  of  two  large  white-washed 
bedrooms  with  stone  chimney-pieces,  less  elaborately 
carved  than  those  in  the  rooms  beneath.  Every  door 
and  window  is  on  the  south  side  of  the  house,  save  a 
single  door  to  the  north,  contrived  behind  the  staircase 
to  give  access  to  the  vineyard.  Against  the  western 
wall  stands  a  supplementary  timber-framed  structure,  all 
the  woodwork  exposed  to  the  weather  being  fledged  with 
slates,  so  that  the  walls  are  checqucred  with  bluish 
lines.  This  shed  (for  it  is  little  more)  is  the  kitchen 
of  the  establishment.  You  can  pass  from  it  into  the 
house  without  going  outside  ;  but,  nevertheless,  it  boasts 
an  entrance  door  of  its  own,  and  a  short  flight  of  steps 
that  brings  you  to  a  deep  well,  and  a  very  rustical-looking 
pump,  half  hidden  by  water-plants  and  savin  bushes  and 
tall  grasses.  The  kitchen  is  a  modern  addition,  proving 
beyond  doubt  that  La  Grenadière  was  originally  nothing 
but  a  simple  vendangeoir — a  vintage-house  belonging  to 
townsfolk  in  Tours,  from  which  Saint-Cyr  is  separated 
by  the  vast  river-bed  of  the  Loire.  The  owners  only 
came  over  for  the  day  for  a  picnic,  or  at  the  vintage- 
time,  sending  provisions  across  in  the  morning,  and 


266 


La  Grenadière 


scarcely  ever  spent  the  night  there  except  duiing  the 
grape  harvest  ;  but  the  English  settled  down  on 
Touraine  like  a  cloud  of  locusts,  and  La  Grenadière 
must,  of  course,  be  completed  if  it  was  to  find  tenants. 
Luckily,  however,  this  recent  appendage  is  hidden  from 
sight  by  the  two  first  trees  of  a  lime-tree  avenue  planted 
in  a  gully  below  the  vineyards. 

There  are  only  two  acres  of  vineyard  at  most,  the  ground 
rising  at  the  back  of  the  house  so  steeply  that  it  is  no 
very  easy  matter  to  scramble  up  among  the  vines.  The 
slope,  covered  with  green  trailing  shoots,  ends  within 
about  five  feet  of  the  house  wall  in  a  ditch-like  passage 
always  damp  and  cold  and  full  of  strong  growing  green 
things,  fed  by  the  drainage  of  the  highly  cultivated 
ground  above,  for  rainy  weather  washes  down  the 
manure  into  the  garden  on  the  terrace. 

A  vinedresser's  cottage  also  leans  against  the  western 
gable,  and  is  in  some  sort  a  continuation  of  the  kitchen. 
Stone  walls  or  espaliers  surround  the  property,  and  all 
sorts  of  fruit-trees  are  planted  among  the  vines,  in  short, 
not  an  inch  of  this  precious  soil  is  wasted.  If  by 
chance  man  overlooks  some  dry  cranny  in  the  rocks, 
Nature  puts  in  a  fig-tree,  or  sows  wildflowers  or  straw- 
berries in  sheltered  nooks  among  the  stones. 

Nowhere  else  in  all  the  world  will  you  find  a  human 
dwelling  so  humble  and  yet  so  imposing,  so  rich  in  fruit, 
and  fragrant  scents,  and  wide  views  of  country.  Here 
is  a  miniature  Touraine  in  the  heart  of  Touraine — all 
its  flowers  and  fruits  and  all  the  characteristic  beauty  of 
the  land  are  fully  represented.  Here  are  grapes  of  every 
district,  figs  and  peaches  and  pears  of  every  kind  ; 
melons  are  grown  out  of  doors  as  easily  as  licorice 
plants,  Spanish  broom,  Italian  oleanders,  and  jessamines 
from  the  Azores.  The  Loire  lies  at  your  feet.  You 
look  down  from  the  terrace  upon  the  ever-changing  river 
nearly  two  hundred  feet  below  ;  and  in  the  evening  the 
breeze  brings  a  fresh  scent  of  the  sea,  with  the  fragrance 


La  Grenadière 


267 


of  far-off  flowers  gathered  upon  its  way.  Some  cloud 
wandering  in  space,  changing  its  colour  and  form  at 
every  moment  as  it  crosses  the  pure  blue  of  the  sky,  can 
alter  every  detail  in  the  widespread  wonderful  landscape 
in  a  thousand  ways,  from  every  point  of  view.  The 
eye  embraces  first  of  all  the  south  bank  of  the  Loire, 
stretching  away  as  far  as  Amboise,  then  Tours  with  its 
suburbs  and  buildings,  and  the  Plessis  rising  out  of  the 
fertile  plain  ;  further  away,  between  Vouvray  and  Saint- 
Symphorien,  you  see  a  sort  of  crescent  of  gray  cliff  full 
of  sunny  vineyards  ;  the  only  limits  to  your  view  are 
the  low,  rich  hills  along  the  Cher,  a  bluish  line  of 
horizon  broken  by  many  a  chateau  and  the  wooded 
masses  of  many  a  park.  Out  to  the  west  you  lose 
yourself  in  the  immense  river,  where  vessels  come  and 
go,  spreading  their  white  sails  to  the  winds  which 
seldom  fail  them  in  the  wide  Loire  basin.  A  prince 
might  build  a  summer  palace  at  La  Grenadière,  but  cer- 
tainly it  will  always  be  the  home  of  a  poet's  desire,  and 
the  sweetest  of  retreats  for  two  young  lovers — for  this 
vintage  house,  which  belongs  to  a  substantial  burgess  of 
Tours,  has  charms  for  every  imagination,  for  the  humblest 
and  dullest  as  well  as  for  the  most  impassioned  and  lofty. 
No  one  can  dwell  there  without  feeling  that  happiness  is 
in  the  air,  without  a  glimpse  of  all  that  is  meant  by  a 
peaceful  life  without  care  or  ambition.  There  is  that 
in  the  air  and  the  sound  of  the  river  that  sets  you 
dreaming  ;  the  sands  have  a  language,  and  are  joyous  or 
dreary,  golden  or  wan  ;  and  the  owner  of  the  vineyard 
may  sit  motionless  amid  perennial  flowers  and  tempting 
fruit,  and  feel  all  the  stir  of  the  world  about  him. 

If  an  Englishman  takes  the  house  for  the  summer,  he 
is  asked  a  thousand  francs  for  six  months,  the  produce  of 
the  vineyard  not  included.  If  the  tenant  wishes  for  the 
orchard  fruit,  the  rent  is  doubled  ;  for  the  vintage,  it  is 
doubled  again.  What  can  La  Grenadière  be  worth,  you 
wonders  La  Grenadière,  with  its  stone  staircase,  its 


268 


La  Grenadière 


beaten  path  and  triple  terrace,  its  two  acres  of  vineyard, 
its  flowering  roses  about  the  balustrades,  its  worn  steps, 
well-head,  rampant  clematis,  and  cosmopolitan  trees  ? 
It  is  idle  to  make  a  bid  !  La  Grenadière  will  never  be 
in  the  market  ;  it  was  bought  once  and  sold,  but  that 
was  in  1690  ;  and  the  owner  parted  with  it  for  forty 
thousand  francs,  reluctant  as  any  Arab  of  the  desert  to 
relinquish  a  favourite  horse.  Since  then  it  has  remained 
in  the  same  family,  its  pride,  its  patrimonial  jewel,  its 
Regent  diamond.  'While  you  behold,  you  have  and 
hold,'  says  the  bard.  And  from  La  Grenadière  you 
behold  three  valleys  of  Touraine  and  the  cathedral 
towers  aloft  in  air  like  a  bit  of  filigree  work.  How  can 
one  pay  for  such  treasures  ?  Could  one  ever  pay  for  the 
health  recovered  there  under  the  linden-trees  ? 

In  the  spring  of  one  of  the  brightest  years  of  the 
Restoration,  a  lady  with  her  housekeeper  and  her  two 
children  (the  oldest  a  boy  thirteen  years  old,  the  youngest 
apparently  about  eight)  came  to  Tours  to  look  for  a 
house.  She  saw  La  Grenadière  and  took  it.  Perhaps 
the  distance  from  the  town  was  an  inducement  to  live 
there. 

She  made  a  bedroom  of  the  drawing-room,  gave  the 
children  the  two  rooms  above,  and  the  housekeeper  slept 
in  a  closet  behind  the  kitchen.  The  dining-room  was 
sitting-room  and  drawing-room  all  in  one  for  the  little 
family.  The  house  was  furnished  very  simply  but  taste- 
fully ;  there  was  nothing  superfluous  in  it,  and  no  trace 
of  luxury.  The  walnut-wood  furniture  chosen  by  the 
stranger  lady  was  perfectly  plain,  and  the  whole  charm 
of  the  house  consisted  in  its  neatness  and  harmony  with 
its  surroundings. 

It  was  rather  difficult,  therefore,  to  say  whether  the 
strange  lady  (Mme.  Willemsens,  as  she  styled  herself) 
belonged  to  the  upper  middle  or  higher  classes,  or  to  an 
equivocal,  unclassified  feminine  species.  Her  plain  dress 
gave  rise  to  the  most  contradictory  suppositions,  but  her 


La  Grenadière 


269 


manners  might  be  held  to  confirm  those  favourable  to 
her.  She  had  not  lived  at  Saint-Cyr,  moreover,  for  very 
long  before  her  reserve  excited  the  curiosity  of  idle 
people,  who  always,  and  especially  in  the  country,  watch 
anybody  or  anything  that  promises  to  bring  some  interest 
into  their  narrow  lives. 

Mme.  Willemsens  was  rather  tall  ;  she  was  thin  and 
slender,  but  delicately  shaped.  She  had  pretty  feet,  more 
remarkable  for  the  grace  of  the  instep  and  ankle  than  for 
the  more  ordinary  merit  of  slenderness  ;  her  gloved 
hands,  too,  were  shapely.  There  were  flitting  patches 
of  deep  red  in  a  pale  face,  which  must  have  been  fresh 
and  softly  coloured  once.  Premature  wrinkles  had  withered 
the  delicately  modelled  forehead  beneath  the  coronet  of 
soft,  well-set  chestnut  hair,  invariably  wound  about  her 
head  in  two  plaits,  a  girlish  coiffure  which  suited  the 
melancholy  face.  There  was  a  deceptive  look  of  calm 
in  the  dark  eyes,  with  the  hollow,  shadowy  circles  about 
them  ;  sometimes,  when  she  was  off  her  guard,  their 
expression  told  of  secret  anguish.  The  oval  of  her  face 
was  somewhat  long  ;  but  happiness  and  health  had  per- 
haps filled  and  perfected  the  outlines.  A  forced  smile, 
full  of  quiet  sadness,  hovered  continually  on  her  pale 
lips  ;  but  when  the  children,  who  were  always  with  her, 
looked  up  at  their  mother,  or  asked  one  of  the  incessant 
idle  questions  which  convey  so  much  to  a  mother's  ears, 
then  the  smile  brightened,  and  expressed  the  joys  of  a 
mother's  love.  Her  gait  was  slow  and  dignified.  Her 
dress  never  varied  ;  evidently  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  think  no  more  of  her  toilette,  and  to  forget  a  world 
by  which  she  meant  no  doubt  to  be  forgotten.  She 
wore  a  long,  black  gown,  confined  at  the  waist  by  a 
watered-silk  ribbon,  and  by  way  of  scarf  a  lawn  hand- 
kerchief with  a  broad  hem,  the  two  ends  passed  care- 
lessly through  her  waistband.  The  instinct  of  dress 
showed  itself  in  that  she  was  daintily  shod,  and  grey 
silk  stockings  carried  out  the  suggestion  of  mourning  in 


270 


La  Grenadîère 


this  unvarying  costume.  Lastly,  she  always  wore  a 
bonnet  after  the  English  fashion,  always  of  the  same 
shape  and  the  same  grey  material,  and  a  black  veil. 
Her  health  apparently  was  extremely  weak  ;  she  looked 
very  ill.  On  fine  evenings  she  would  take  her  only 
walk,  down  to  the  bridge  of  Tours,  bringing  the  two 
children  with  her  to  breathe  the  fresh,  cool  air  along  the 
Loire,  and  to  watch  the  sunset  effects  on  a  landscape  as 
wide  as  the  Bay  of  Naples  or  the  Lake  of  Geneva. 

During  the  whole  time  of  her  stay  at  La  Grenadière 
she  went  but  twice  into  Tours;  once  to  call  on  the 
headmaster  of  the  school,  to  ask  him  to  give  her  the 
names  of  the  best  masters  of  Latin,  drawing,  and  mathe- 
matics; and  a  second  time  to  make  arrangements  for 
the  children's  lessons.  But  her  appearance  on  the  bridge 
of  an  evening,  once  or  twice  a  week,  was  quite  enough 
to  excite  the  interest  of  almost  all  the  inhabitants  of 
Tours,  who  make  a  regular  promenade  of  the  bridge. 
Still,  in  spite  of  a  kind  of  spy  system,  by  which  no  harm 
is  meant,  a  provincial  habit  bred  of  want  of  occupation 
and  the  restless  inquisitiveness  of  the  principal  society, 
nothing  was  known  for  certain  of  the  new-comer's  rank, 
fortune,  or  real  condition.  Only,  the  owner  of  La 
Grenadière  told  one  or  two  of  his  friends  that  the  name 
under  which  the  stranger  had  signed  the  lease  (her  real 
name,  therefore,  in  all  probability)  was  Augusta  Wil- 
lemsens,  Countess  of  Brandon.  This,  of  course,  must  be 
her  husband's  name.  Events,  which  will  be  narrated  in 
their  place,  confirmed  this  revelation  ;  but  it  went  no 
further  than  the  little  world  of  men  of  business  known 
to  the  landlord. 

So  Mme.  Willemsens  was  a  continual  mystery  to 
people  of  condition.  Hers  was  no  ordinary  nature  ;  her 
manners  were  simple  and  delightfully  natural,  the  tones 
of  her  voice  were  divinely  sweet, — this  was  all  that  she 
suffered  others  to  discover.  In  her  complete  seclusion, 
her  sadness,  her  beauty  so  passionately  obscured,  nay, 


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271 


almost  blighted,  there  was  so  much  to  charm,  that 
several  young  gentlemen  fell  in  love  ;  but  the  more  sin- 
cere the  lover,  the  more  timid  he  became  ;  and  besides, 
the  lady  inspired  awe,  and  it  was  a  difficult  matter  to 
find  enough  courage  to  speak  to  her.  Finally,  if  a  few 
of  the  bolder  sort  wrote  to  her,  their  letters  must  have 
been  burned  unread.  It  was  Mme.  Willemsens'  practice 
to  throw  all  the  letters  which  she  received  into  the  fire, 
as  if  she  meant  that  the  time  spent  in  Touraine  should 
be  untroubled  by  any  outside  cares  even  of  the  slightest. 
She  might  have  come  to  the  enchanting  retreat  to  give 
herself  up  wholly  to  the  joy  of  living. 

The  three  masters  whose  presence  was  allowed  at  La 
Grenadière  spoke  with  something  like  admiring  rever- 
ence of  the  touching  picture  that  they  saw  there  of  the 
close,  unclouded  intimacy  of  the  life  led  by  this  woman 
and  the  children. 

The  two  little  boys  also  aroused  no  small  interest. 
Mothers  could  not  see  them  without  a  feeling  of  envy. 
Both  children  were  like  Mme.  Willemsens,  who  was,  in 
fact,  their  mother.  They  had  the  transparent  com- 
plexion and  bright  colour,  the  clear,  liquid  eyes,  the  long 
lashes,  the  fresh  outlines,  the  dazzling  characteristics  of 
childish  beauty. 

The  elder,  Louis-Gaston,  had  dark  hair  and  fearless 
eyes.  Everything  about  him  spoke  as  plainly  of  robust, 
physical  health  as  his  broad,  high  brow,  with  its  gracious 
curves,  spoke  of  energy  of  character.  He  was  quick  and 
alert  in  his  movements,  and  strong  of  limb,  without  a 
trace  of  awkwardness.  Nothing  took  him  at  unawares, 
and  he  seemed  to  think  about  everything  that  he  saw. 

Marie-Gaston,  the  other  child,  had  hair  that  was 
almost  golden,  though  a  lock  here  and  there  had 
deepened  to  the  mother's  chestnut  tint.  Marie-Gaston 
was  slender  ;  he  had  the  delicate  features  and  the  subtle 
grace  so  charming  in  Mme.  Willemsens.  He  did  not 
look  strong.    There  was  a  gentle  look  in  his  gray  eyes  ; 


La  Grenadière 


his  face  was  pale  ;  there  was  something  feminine  about 
the  child.  He  still  wore  his  hair  in  long,  wavy  curls, 
and  his  mother  would  not  have  him  give  up  embroidered 
collars,  and  little  jackets  fastened  with  frogs  and  spindle- 
shaped  buttons  ;  evidently  she  took  a  thoroughly  feminine 
pleasure  in  the  costume,  a  source  of  as  much  interest  to 
the  mother  as  to  the  child.  The  elder  boy's  plain  white 
collar,  turned  down  over  a  closely  fitting  jacket,  made  a 
contrast  with  his  brother's  clothing,  but  the  colour  and 
material  were  the  same  ;  the  two  brothers  were  otherwise 
dressed  alike,  and  looked  alike. 

No  one  could  see  them  without  feeling  touched  by 
the  way  in  which  Louis  took  care  of  Marie.  There 
was  an  almost  fatherly  look  in  the  older  boy's  eyes  ;  and 
Marie,  child  though  he  was,  seemed  to  be  full  of 
gratitude  to  Louis.  They  were  like  two  buds,  scarcely 
separated  from  the  stem  that  bore  them,  swayed  by  the 
same  breeze,  lying  in  the  same  ray  of  sunlight  ;  but  the 
one  was  a  brightly  coloured  flower,  the  other  somewhat 
bleached  and  pale.  At  a  glance,  a  word,  an  inflection 
in  their  mother's  voice,  they  grew  heedful,  turned  to 
look  at  her  and  listened,  and  did  at  once  what  they  were 
bidden,  or  asked,  or  recommended  to  do.  Mme. 
Willemsens  had  so  accustomed  them  to  understand  her 
wishes  and  desires,  that  the  three  seemed  to  have  their 
thoughts  in  common.  When  they  went  for  a  walk, 
and  the  children,  absorbed  in  their  play,  ran  away  to 
gather  a  flower  or  to  look  at  some  insect,  she  watched 
them  with  such  deep  tenderness  in  her  eyes,  that  the 
most  indifferent  passer-by  would  feel  moved,  and  stop 
and  smile  at  the  children,  and  give  the  mother  a  glance 
of  friendly  greeting.  Who  would  not  have  admired  the 
dainty  neatness  of  their  dress,  their  sweet,  childish 
voices,  the  grace  of  their  movements,  the  promise  in 
their  faces,  the  innate  something  that  told  of  careful 
training  from  the  cradle  ?  They  seemed  as  if  they  had 
never  shed  tears  nor  wailed  like  other  children.  Their 


La  Grenadière 


*73 


mother  knew,  as  it  were,  by  electrically  swift  intuition, 
the  desires  and  the  pains  which  she  anticipated  and 
relieved.  She  seemed  to  dread  a  complaint  from  one  of 
them  more  than  the  loss  of  her  soul.  Everything  in  her 
children  did  honour  to  their  mother's  training.  Their 
threefold  life,  seemingly  one  life,  called  up  vague,  fond 
thoughts  ;  it  was  like  a  vision  of  the  dreamed-of  bliss 
of  a  better  world.  And  the  three,  so  attuned  to  each 
other,  lived  in  truth  such  a  life  as  one  might  picture  for 
them  at  first  sight — the  ordered,  simple,  and  regular 
life  best  suited  for  a  child's  education. 

Both  children  rose  an  hour  after  daybreak  and 
repeated  a  short  prayer,  a  habit  learned  in  their  baby- 
hood. For  seven  years  the  sincere  petition  had  been 
put  up  every  morning  on  their  mother's  bed,  and  begun 
and  ended  by  a  kiss.  Then  the  two  brothers  went 
through  their  morning  toilet  as  scrupulously  as  any 
pretty  woman  $  doubtless  they  had  been  trained  in  habits 
of  minute  attention  to  the  person,  so  necessary  to 
health  of  body  and  mind,  habits  in  some  sort  conducive 
to  a  sense  of  wellbeing.  Conscientiously  they  went 
through  their  duties,  so  afraid  were  they  lest  their  mother 
should  say  when  she  kissed  them  at  breakfast-time,  *  My 
darling  children,  where  can  you  have  been  to  have  such 
black  finger-nails  already  ?  '  Then  the  two  went  out 
into  the  garden  and  shook  off  the  dreams  of  the  night 
in  the  morning  air  and  dew,  until  sweeping  and  dusting 
operations  were  completed,  and  they  could  learn  their 
lessons  in  the  sitting-room  until  their  mother  joined 
them.  But  although  it  was  understood  that  they  must 
not  go  to  their  mother's  room  before  a  certain  hour,  they 
peeped  in  at  the  door  continually  ;  and  these  morning 
inroads,  made  in  defiance  of  the  original  compact,  were 
delicious  moments  for  all  three.  Marie  sprang  upon  the 
bed  to  put  his  arms  about  his  idolised  mother,  and 
Louis,  kneeling  by  the  pillow,  took  her  hand  in  his. 
Then  came  inquiries,  anxious  as  a  lover's,  followed  by 

s 


274 


La  Grenadière 


angelic  laughter,  passionate  childish  kisses,  eloquent 
silences,  lisping  words,  and  the  little  ones'  stories  inter- 
rupted and  resumed  by  a  kiss,  stories  seldom  finished, 
though  the  listener's  interest  never  failed. 

4  Have  you  been  industrious  ?  '  their  mother  would 
ask,  but  in  tones  so  sweet  and  so  kindly  that  she  seemed 
ready  to  pity  laziness  as  a  misfortune,  and  to  glance 
through  tears  at  the  child  who  was  satisfied  with  himself. 

She  knew  that  the  thought  of  pleasing  her  put 
energy  into  the  children's  work;  and  they  knew  that 
their  mother  lived  for  them,  and  that  all  her  thoughts 
and  her  time  were  given  to  them.  A  wonderful  instinct, 
neither  selfishness  nor  reason,  perhaps  the  first  innocent 
beginnings  of  sentiment,  teaches  children  to  know 
whether  or  no  they  are  the  first  and  sole  thought,  to  find 
out  those  who  love  to  think  of  them  and  for  them.  If 
you  really  love  children,  the  dear  little  ones,  with  open 
hearts  and  unerring  sense  of  justice,  are  marvellously 
ready  to  respond  to  love.  Their  love  knows  passion 
and  jealousy  and  the  most  gracious  delicacy  of  feeling  ; 
they  find  the  tenderest  words  of  expression  ;  they  trust 
you — put  an  entire  belief  in  you.  Perhaps  there  are  no 
andutiful  children  without  undutiful  mothers,  for  a 
child's  affection  is  always  in  proportion  to  the  affection 
that  it  receives — in  early  care,  in  the  first  words  that  it 
hears,  in  the  response  of  the  eyes  to  which  a  child  first 
looks  for  love  and  life.  All  these  things  draw  them 
closer  to  the  mother  or  drive  them  apart.  God  lays  the 
child  under  the  mother's  heart,  that  she  may  learn  that 
for  a  long  time  to  come  her  heart  must  be  its  home. 
And  yet — there  are  mothers  cruelly  slighted,  mothers 
whose  sublime,  pathetic  tenderness  meets  only  a  harsh 
return,  a  hideous  ingratitude  which  shows  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  lay  down  hard-and-fast  rules  in  matters 
of  feeling. 

Here,  not  one  of  all  the  thousand  heart  ties  that  bind 
child  and  mother  had  been  broken.  The  three  were  alone 


La  Grenadière  275 

in  the  world  ;  they  lived  one  life,  a  life  of  close  sympathy. 
If  Mme.  Willemsens  was  silent  in  the  morning,  Louis 
and  Marie  would  not  speak,  respecting  everything  in 
her,  even  those  thoughts  which  they  did  not  share. 
But  the  older  boy,  with  a  precocious  power  of  thought, 
would  not  rest  satisfied  with  his  mother's  assertion 
that  she  was  perfectly  well.  He  scanned  her  face 
with  uneasy  forebodings  ;  the  exact  danger  he  did  not 
know,  but  dimly  he  felt  it  threatening  in  those  purple 
rings  about  her  eyes,  in  the  deepening  hollows  under 
them,  and  the  feverish  red  that  deepened  in  her  face. 
If  Marie's  play  began  to  tire  her,  his  sensitive  tact 
was  quick  to  discover  this,  and  he  would  call  to  his 
brother — 

* Come,  Marie!  let  us  run  in  to  breakfast,  I  am 
hungry  !  ' 

But  when  they  reached  the  door,  he  would  look  back 
to  catch  the  expression  on  his  mother's  face.  She  still 
could  find  a  smile  for  him,  nay,  often  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes  when  some  little  thing  revealed  her  child's 
exquisite  feeling,  a  too  early  comprehension  of  sorrow. 

Mme.  Willemsens  dressed  during  the  children's  early 
breakfast  and  game  of  play,  she  was  coquettish  for  her 
darlings  ;  she  wished  to  be  pleasing  in  their  eyes  ;  for 
them  she  would  fain  be  in  all  things  lovely,  a  gracious 
vision,  with  the  charm  of  some  sweet  perfume  of  which 
one  can  never  have  enough. 

She  was  always  dressed  in  time  to  hear  their  lessons, 
which  lasted  from  ten  till  three,  with  an  interval  at  noon 
for  lunch,  the  three  taking  the  meal  together  in  the 
summer-house.  After  lunch  the  children  played  for  an 
hour,  while  she — poor  woman  and  happy  mother — lay  on 
a  long  sofa  in  the  summer-house,  so  placed  that  she 
could  look  out  over  the  soft,  ever-changing  country  of 
Touraine,  a  land  that  you  learn  to  see  afresh  in  all  the 
thousand  chance  effects  produced  by  daylight  and  sky  and 
the  time  of  year. 


276 


La  Grenadière 


The  children  scampered  through  the  orchard,  scram- 
bled about  the  terraces,  chased  the  lizards,  scarcely  less 
nimble  than  they  ;  investigating  flowers  and  seeds  and 
insects,  continually  referring  all  questions  to  their 
mother,  running  to  and  fro  between  the  garden  and  the 
summer-house.  Children  have  no  need  of  toys  in  the 
country,  everything  amuses  them. 

Mme.  Willernsens  sat  at  her  embroidery  during  their 
lessons.  She  never  spoke,  nor  did  she  look  at  masters 
or  pupils  ;  but  she  followed  attentively  all  that  was  said, 
striving  to  gather  the  sense  of  the  words  to  gain  a 
general  idea  of  Louis's  progress.  If  Louis  asked  a 
question  that  puzzled  his  master,  his  mother's  eyes 
suddenly  lighted  up,  and  she  would  smile  and  glance  at 
him  with  hope  in  her  eyes.  Of  Marie  she  asked  little. 
Her  desire  was  with  her  eldest  son.  Already  she  treated 
him,  as  it  were,  respectfully,  using  all  a  woman's,  all  a 
mother's  tact  to  arouse  the  spirit  of  high  endeavour  in 
the  boy,  to  teach  him  to  think  of  himself  as  capable  of 
great  things.  She  did  this  with  a  secret  purpose,  which 
Louis  was  to  understand  in  the  future  ;  nay,  he  under- 
stood it  already. 

Always,  the  lesson  over,  she  went  as  far  as  the  gate 
with  the  master,  and  asked  strict  account  of  Louis's 
progress.  So  kindly  and  so  winning  was  her  manner, 
that  his  tutors  told  her  the  truth,  pointing  out  where 
Louis  was  weak,  so  that  she  might  help  him  in  his 
lessons.  Then  came  dinner,  and  play  after  dinner,  then 
a  walk,  and  lessons  were  learned  till  bedtime. 

So  their  days  went.  It  was  a  uniform  but  full  life  ; 
work  and  amusements  left  them  not  a  dull  hour 
in  the  day.  Discouragement  and  quarrelling  were  im- 
possible. The  mother's  boundless  love  made  everything 
smooth.  She  taught  her  little  sons  moderation  by  re- 
fusing them  nothing,  and  submission  by  making  them 
see  underlying  Necessity  in  its  many  forms  ;  she  put 
heart  into  them  with  timely  praise  ;  developing  and 


La  Grenadière 


277 


strengthening  all  that  was  best  in  their  natures  with 
the  care  of  a  good  fairy.  Tears  sometimes  rose  to  her 
burning  eyes  as  she  watched  them  play,  and  thought 
how  that  they  had  never  caused  her  the  slightest  vexa- 
tion. Happiness  so  far-reaching  and  complete  brings 
such  tears,  because  for  us  it  represents  the  dim  imagin- 
ings of  Heaven  which  we  all  of  us  form  in  our  minds. 

Those  were  delicious  hours  spent  on  that  sofa  in  the 
garden  house,  in  looking  out  on  sunny  days  over  the 
wide  stretches  of  river  and  the  picturesque  landscape, 
listening  to  the  sound  of  her  children's  voices  as 
they  laughed  at  their  own  laughter,  to  the  little  quar- 
rels that  told  most  plainly  of  their  union  of  heart,  of 
Louis's  paternal  care  of  Marie,  of  the  love  that  both  of 
them  felt  for  her.  They  spoke  English  and  French 
equally  well  (they  had  had  an  English  nurse  since  their 
babyhood),  so  their  mother  talked  to  them  in  both 
languages  ;  directing  the  bent  of  their  childish  minds 
with  admirable  skill,  admitting  no  fallacious  reasoning, 
no  bad  principle.  She  ruled  by  kindness,  concealing 
nothing,  explaining  everything.  If  Louis  wished  for 
books  she  was  careful  to  give  him  interesting  yet 
accurate  books — books  of  biography,  the  lives  of  great 
seamen,  great  captains,  and  famous  men,  for  little 
incidents  in  their  history  gave  her  numberless  oppor- 
tunities of  explaining  the  world  and  life  to  her  children. 
She  would  point  out  the  ways  in  which  men,  really  great 
in  themselves,  had  risen  from  obscurity  ;  how  they  had 
started  from  the  lowest  ranks  of  society,  with  no  one  to 
look  to  but  themselves,  and  achieved  noble  destinies. 

These  readings,  and  they  were  not  the  least  useful  of 
Louis's  lessons,  took  place  while  little  Marie  slept  on 
his  mother's  knee  in  the  quiet  of  the  summer  night, 
and  the  Loire  reflected  the  sky  ;  but  when  they  ended, 
this  adorable  woman's  sadness  always  seemed  to  be 
doubled  ;  she  would  cease  to  speak,  and  sit  motionless 
and  pensive,  and  her  eyes  would  fill  with  tears. 


278 


La  Grenadière 


c  Mother,  why  are  you  crying  ? 9  Louis  asked  one 
balmy  June  evening,  just  as  the  twilight  of  a  soft-lit 
night  succeeded  to  a  hot  day. 

Deeply  moved  by  his  trouble,  she  put  her  arm  about 
the  child's  neck  and  drew  him  to  her, 

6  Because,  my  boy,  the  lot  of  Jameray  Duval,  the  poor 
and  friendless  lad  who  succeeded  at  last,  will  be  your 
lot,  yours  and  your  brother's,  and  I  have  brought  it 
upon  you.  Before  very  long,  dear  child,  you  will  be 
alone  in  the  world,  with  no  one  to  help  or  befriend  you. 
While  you  are  still  children,  I  shall  leave  you,  and  yet, 
if  only  I  could  wait  till  you  are  big  enough  and  know 
enough  to  be  Marie's  guardian  !  But  I  shall  not  live  so 
long.  I  love  you  so  much  that  it  makes  me  very 
unhappy  to  think  of  it.  Dear  children,  if  only  you  do 
not  curse  me  some  day  !  ' 

c  But  why  should  I  curse  you  some  day,  mother  ?  ' 

'Some  day,'  she  said,  kissing  him  on  the  forehead, 
'you  will  find  out  that  I  have  wronged  you.  I  am 
going  to  leave  you,  here,  without  money,  without  ' — here 
she  hesitated — 'without  a  father,'  she  added,  and  at 
the  word  she  burst  into  tears  and  put  the  boy  from  her 
gently.  A  sort  of  intuition  told  Louis  that  his  mother 
wished  to  be  alone,  and  he  caried  off  Marie,  now  half 
awake.  An  hour  later,  when  his  brother  was  in  bed,  he 
stole  down  and  out  to  the  summer-house  where  his  mother 
was  sitting. 

c  Louis  !  come  here.' 

The  words  were  spoken  in  tones  delicious  to  his 
heart.  The  boy  sprang  to  his  mother's  arms,  and 
the  two  held  each  other  in  an  almost  convulsive 
embrace. 

1  CherieJ  he  said  at  last,  the  name  by  which  he  often 
called  her,  finding  that  even  loving  words  were  too  weak  to 
express  his  feeling,  'chérie,  why  are  you  afraid  that  you 
are  going  to  die  ?  ' 

*  I  am  ill,  my  poor  darling  ;  every  day  I  am  losing 


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279 


strength,  and  there  is  no  cure  for  my  illness  ;  I  know 
that.' 

i  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  * 

4  Something  that  I  ought  to  forget  ;  something  that 
you  must  never  know. — You  must  not  know  what 
caused  my  death.' 

The  boy  was  silent  a  while.  He  stole  a  glance  now 
and  again  at  his  mother  ;  and  she,  with  her  eyes  raised 
to  the  sky,  was  watching  the  clouds.  It  was  a  sad, 
sweet  moment.  Louis  could  not  believe  that  his  mother 
would  die  soon,  but  instinctively  he  felt  trouble  which 
he  could  not  guess.  He  respected  her  long  musings. 
If  he  had  been  rather  older,  he  would  have  read  happy 
memories  blended  with  thoughts  of  repentance,  the 
whole  story  of  a  woman's  life  in  that  sublime  face — the 
careless  childhood,  the  loveless  marriage,  a  terrible  pas- 
sion, flowers  springing  up  in  storm  and  struck  down  by 
the  thunderbolt  into  an  abyss  from  which  there  is  no 
return. 

'Darling  mother,'  Louis  said  at  last,  'why  do  you 
hide  your  pain  from  me  ?  ' 

c  My  boy,  we  ought  to  hide  our  troubles  from 
strangers,'  she  said  ;  c  we  should  show  them  a  smiling 
face,  never  speak  of  ourselves  to  them,  nor  think 
about  ourselves  ;  and  these  rules,  put  in  practice  in 
family  life,  conduce  to  its  happiness.  You  will  have 
much  to  bear  one  day  !  Ah  me  !  then  think  of  your 
poor  mother  who  died  smiling  before  your  eyes,  hiding 
her  sufferings  from  you,  and  you  will  take  courage  to 
endure  the  ills  of  life.' 

She  choked  back  her  tears,  and  tried  to  make  the  boy 
understand  the  mechanism  of  existence,  the  value  of 
money,  the  standing  and  consideration  that  it  gives,  and 
its  bearing  on  social  position  ;  the  honourable  means  of 
gaining  a  livelihood,  and  the  necessity  of  a  training. 
Then  she  told  him  that  one  of  the  chief  causes  of  her 
sadness  and  her  tears  was  the  thought  that,  on  the 


28o 


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morrow  of  her  death,  he  and  Marie  would  be  left  almost 
resourceless,  with  but  a  slender  stock  of  money,  and  no 
friend  but  God. 

*  How  quick  I  must  be  about  learning  !  '  cried  Louis, 
giving  her  a  piteous,  searching  look. 

c  Oh  !  how  happy  I  am!'  she  said,  showering  kisses 
and  tears  on  her  son.  c  He  understands  me  ! — Louis,' 
she  went  on,  cvou  will  be  your  brother's  guardian,  will 
you  not  ?  You  promise  me  that  ?  You  are  no  longer  a 
child  !  ' 

'  Yes,  I  promise,5  he  said  \  1  but  you  are  not  going  to 
die  yet — say  that  you  are  not  going  to  die  !  ' 

4  Poor  little  ones  !  '  she  replied,  4  love  for  you  keeps 
the  life  in  me.  And  this  country  is  so  sunny,  the  air  is 
so  bracing,  perhaps  ' 

'  You  make  me  love  Touraine  more  than  ever,'  said 
the  child. 

From  that  day,  when  Mme.  Willemsens,  foreseeing 
the  approach  of  death,  spoke  to  Louis  of  his  future,  he 
concentrated  his  attention  on  his  work,  grew  more 
industrious,  and  less  inclined  to  play  than  heretofore. 
When  he  had  coaxed  Marie  to  read  a  book  and  to  give 
up  boisterous  games,  there  was  less  noise  in  the  hollow 
pathways  and  gardens  and  terraced  walks  of  La 
Grenadière.  They  adapted  their  lives  to  their  mother's 
melancholy.  Day  by  day  her  face  was  growing  pale 
and  wan,  there  were  hollows  now  in  her  temples,  the 
lines  in  her  forehead  grew  deeper  night  after  night. 

August  came.  The  little  familv  had  been  five  months 
at  La  Grenadière,  and  their  whole  life  was  changed. 
The  old  servant  grew  anxious  and  gloomy  as  she  watched 
the  almost  imperceptible  symptoms  of  slow  decline  in 
the  mistress,  who  seemed  to  be  kept  in  life  by  an  im- 
passioned soul  and  intense  love  of  her  children.  Old 
Annette  seemed  to  see  that  death  was  very  near.  That 
mistress,  beautiful  still,  was  mere  careful  of  her  appear- 
ance than  she  had  ever  been  ;  she  was  at  pains  to  adorn 


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281 


her  wasted  self,  and  wore  paint  on  her  cheeks  ;  but 
often  while  she  walked  on  the  upper  terrace  with  the 
children,  Annette's  wrinkled  face  would  peer  out  from 
between  the  savin  trees  by  the  pump.  The  old  woman 
would  forget  her  work,  and  stand  with  the  wet  linen  in 
her  hands,  scarce  able  to  keep  back  her  tears  at  the  sight 
of  Mme.  Willemsens,  so  little  like  the  enchanting  woman 
she  once  had  been. 

The  pretty  house  itself,  once  so  gay  and  bright,  looked 
melancholy  ;  it  was  a  very  quiet  house  now,  and  the 
family  seldom  left  it,  for  the  walk  to  the  bridge  was  too 
great  an  effort  for  Mme.  Willemsens.  Louis  had  almost 
identified  himself,  as  it  were,  with  his  mother,  and  with 
his  suddenly  developed  powers  of  imagination  he  saw 
the  weariness  and  exhaustion  under  the  red  colour, 
and  constantly  found  reasons  for  taking  some  shorter 
walk. 

So  happy  couples  coming  to  Saint-Cyr,  then  the  Petite 
Courtille  of  Tours,  and  knots  of  folk  out  for  their 
evening  walk  along  the  c  dike,'  saw  a  pale,  thin  figure 
dressed  in  black,  a  woman  with  a  worn  yet  bright  face, 
gliding  like  a  shadow  along  the  terraces.  Great  suffer- 
ing cannot  be  concealed.  The  vinedresser's  household 
had  grown  quiet  also.  Sometimes  the  labourer  and 
his  wife  and  children  were  gathered  about  the  door  of 
their  cottage,  while  Annette  was  washing  linen  at  the 
well-head,  and  Mme.  Willemsens  and  the  children  sat  in 
the  summer-house,  and  there  was  not  the  faintest  sound 
in  those  gardens  gay  with  flowers.  Unknown  to  Mme. 
Willemsens,  all  eyes  grew  pitiful  at  the  sight  of  her,  she 
was  so  good,  so  thoughtful,  so  dignified  with  those 
with  whom  she  came  in  contact. 

And  as  for  her. — When  the  autumn  days  came  on, 
days  so  sunny  and  bright  in  Touraine,  bringing  with 
them  grapes  and  ripe  fruits  and  healthful  influences 
which  must  surely  prolong  life  in  spite  of  the  ravages  of 
mysterious  disease — she  saw  no  one  but  her  children, 


La  Grenadière 


taking  the  utmost  that  the  hour  could  give  her,  as  if 
each  hour  had  been  her  last. 

Louis  had  worked  at  night,  unknown  to  his  mother, 
and  made  immense  progress  between  June  and  Septem- 
ber. In  algebra  he  had  come  as  far  as  equations  with 
two  unknown  quantities  ;  he  had  studied  descriptive 
geometry,  and  drew  admirably  well  ;  in  fact,  he,  was 
prepared  to  pass  the  entrance  examination  of  the  École 
polytechnique. 

Sometimes  of  an  evening  he  went  down  to  the  bridge 
of  Tours.  There  was  a  lieutenant  there  on  half-pay,  an 
Imperial  naval  officer,  whose  manly  face,  medal,  and  gait 
had  made  an  impression  on  the  boy's  imagination,  and 
the  officer  on  his  side  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  lad, 
whose  eyes  sparkled  with  energy.  Louis,  hungering  for 
tales  of  adventure,  and  eager  for  information,  used  to 
follow  in  the  lieutenant's  wake  for  the  chance  of  a  chat 
with  him.  It  so  happened  that  the  sailor  had  a  friend 
and  comrade  in  the  colonel  of  a  regiment  of  infantry, 
struck  off  the  rolls  like  himself;  and  young  Louis- 
Gaston  had  a  chance  of  learning  what  life  was  like  in 
camp  or  on  board  a  man-of-war.  Of  course,  he  plied 
the  veterans  with  questions  ;  and  when  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  the  hardships  of  their  rough  callings,  he 
asked  his  mother's  leave  to  take  country  walks  by  way 
of  amusement.  Mme.  Willemsens  was  beyond  measure 
glad  that  he  should  ask  ;  the  boy's  astonished  masters 
had  told  her  that  he  was  overworking  himself.  So  Louis 
went  for  long  walks.  He  tried  to  inure  himself  to 
fatigue,  climbed  the  tallest  trees  with  incredible  quick- 
ness, learned  to  swim,  watched  through  the  night.  He 
was  not  like  the  same  boy;  he  was  a  young  man  already, 
with  a  sunburned  face,  and  a  something  in  his  expression 
that  told  of  deep  purpose. 

When  October  came,  Mme.  Willemsens  could  only 
rise  at  noon.  The  sunshine,  reflected  by  the  surface  of 
the  Loire,  and  stored  up  by  the  rocks,  raised  the  tempera- 


La  Grenadiere 


ture  of  the  air  till  it  was  almost  as  warm  and  soft  as  the 
atmosphere  of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  for  which  reason  the 
faculty  recommend  the  place  of  abode.  At  mid-day 
she  came  out  to  sit  under  the  shade  of  green  leaves 
with  the  two  boys,  who  never  wandered  from  her  now. 
Lessons  had  come  to  an  end.  Mother  and  children 
wished  to  live  the  life  of  heart  and  heart  together,  with 
no  disturbing  element,  no  outside  cares.  No  tears  now, 
no  joyous  outcries.  The  elder  boy,  lying  in  the  grass  at 
his  mother's  side,  basked  in  her  eyes  like  a  lover,  and 
kissed  her  feet.  Marie,  the  restless  one,  gathered  flowers 
for  her,  and  brought  them  with  a  subdued  look,  standing 
on  tiptoe  to  put  a  girlish  kiss  on  her  lips.  And  the  pale 
woman,  with  the  great  tired  eyes  and  languid  movements, 
never  uttered  a  word  of  complaint,  and  smiled  upon  her 
children,  so  full  of  life  and  health — it  was  a  sublime 
picture,  lacking  no  melancholy  autumn  pomp  of  yellow 
leaves  and  half-despoiled  branches,  nor  the  softened  sun- 
light and  pale  clouds  of  the  skies  of  Touraine. 

At  last  the  doctor  forbade  Mme.  Willemsens  to  leave 
her  room.  Every  day  it  was  brightened  by  the  flowers 
that  she  loved,  and  her  children  were  always  with  her. 
One  day,  early  in  November,  she  sat  at  the  piano  for  the 
last  time.  A  picture — a  Swiss  landscape — hung  above 
the  instrument;  and  at  the  window  she  could  see  her 
children  standing  with  their  heads  close  together. 
Again  and  again  she  looked  from  the  children  to  the 
landscape,  and  then  again  at  the  children.  Her  face 
flushed,  her  fingers  flew  with  passionate  feeling  over  the 
ivory  keys.  This  was  her  last  great  day,  an  unmarked 
day  of  festival,  held  in  her  own  soul  by  the  spirit  of  her 
memories.  When  the  doctor  came,  he  ordered  her  to 
stay  in  bed.  The  alarming  dictum  was  received  with 
bewildered  silence. 

When  the  doctor  had  gone,  she  turned  to  the  older  boy. 

*  Louis,'  she  said, *  take  me  out  on  the  terrace,  so  that 
I  may  see  my  country  once  more.' 


284 


La  Grenadière 


The  boy  gave  his  arm  at  those  simply  uttered  words, 
and  brought  his  mother  out  upon  the  terrace  ;  but  her 
eyes  turned,  perhaps  unconsciously,  to  heaven  rather  than 
to  the  earth,  and,  indeed,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say 
whether  heaven  or  earth  was  the  fairer — for  the  clouds 
traced  shadowy  outlines,  like  the  grandest  Alpine  glaciers, 
against  the  sky.  Mme.  Willemsens'  brows  contracted 
vehemently  ;  there  was  a  look  of  anguish  and  remorse  in 
her  eyes.  She  caught  the  children's  hands,  and  clutched 
them  to  a  heavily-throbbing  heart. 

"  4  Parentage  unknown  !  '  "  she  cried,  with  a  look  that 
went  to  their  hearts.  c  Poor  angels,  what  will  become 
of  you  ?  And  when  you  are  twenty  years  old,  what 
strict  account  may  you  not  require  of  my  life  and  your 
own  ?  * 

She  put  the  children  from  her,  and  leaning  her  arms 
upon  the  balustrade,  stood  for  a  while  hiding  her  face, 
alone  with  herself,  fearful  of  all  eyes.  When  she 
recovered  from  the  paroxysm,  she  saw  Louis  and  Marie 
kneeling  on  either  side  of  her,  like  two  angels  ;  they 
watched  the  expression  of  her  face,  and  smiled  lovingly 
at  her. 

c  If  only  I  could  take  that  smile  with  me  ! f  she  said, 
drying  her  eyes. 

Then  she  went  into  the  house  and  took  to  the  bed, 
which  she  would  only  leave  for  her  coffin. 

A  week  went  by,  one  day  exactly  like  another.  Old 
Annette  and  Louis  took  it  in  turns  to  sit  up  with  Mme. 
Willemsens,  never  taking  their  eyes  from  the  invalid. 
It  was  the  deeply  tragical  hour  that  comes  in  all  our 
lives,  the  hour  of  listening  in  terror  to  every  deep 
breath  lest  it  should  be  the  last,  a  dark  hour  protracted 
over  many  days.  On  the  fifth  day  of  that  fatal  week 
the  doctor  interdicted  flowers  in  the  room.  The  illu- 
sions of  life  were  going  one  by  one. 

Then  Marie  and  his  brother  felt  their  mother's  lips 
hot  as  fire  beneath  their  kisses  ;  and  at  last,  on  the  Satur- 


La  Grenadière 


day  evening,  Mme.  Willemsens  was  too  ill  to  bear  the 
slightest  sound,  and  her  room  was  left  in  disorder.  This 
neglect  for  a  woman  of  refined  taste5  who  clung  so  per- 
sistently to  the  graces  of  life,  meant  the  beginning  of 
the  death-agony.  After  this,  Louis  refused  to  leave  his 
mother.  On  Sunday  night,  in  the  midst  of  the  deepest 
silence,  when  Louis  thought  that  she  had  grown  drowsy, 
he  saw  a  white,  moist  hand  move  the  curtain  in  the 
lamplight. 

<  My  son  ! 9  she  said.  There  was  something  so  solemn 
in  the  dying  woman's  tones,  that  the  power  of  her 
wrought-up  soul  produced  a  violent  reaction  on  the  boy  ; 
he  felt  an  intense  heat  pass  through  the  marrow  of  his 
bones. 

<  What  is  it,  mother  ?  ' 

c  Listen  !  To-morrow  all  will  be  over  for  me.  We 
shall  see  each  other  no  more.  To-morrow  you  will  be 
a  man,  my  child.  So  I  am  obliged  to  make  some  arrange- 
ments, which  must  remain  a  secret,  known  only  to  us. 
Take  the  key  of  my  little  table.  That  is  it.  Now 
open  the  drawer.  You  will  find  two  sealed  papers  to 
the  left.  There  is  the  name  of  Louis  on  one,  and  on 
the  other  Marie.' 

c  Here  they  are,  mother.' 

4  Those  are  your  certificates  of  birth,  darling  ;  you 
will  want  them.  Give  them  to  our  poor,  old  Annette  to 
keep  for  you  ;  ask  her  for  them  when  you  need  them. 
Now,'  she  continued,  f  is  there  not  another  paper  as  well, 
something  in  my  handwriting  ?  ' 

cYes,  mother,'  and  Louis  began  to  read,  i  Marie 
Willemsens^  born  at  ' 

c  That  is  enough,'  she  broke  in  quickly,  *  do  not  go 
on.  When  I  am  dead,  give  that  paper,  too,  to  Annette, 
and  tell  her  to  send  it  to  the  registrar  at  Saint-Cyr  ;  it 
will  be  wanted  if  my  certificate  of  death  is  to  be  made 
out  in  due  form.  Now  find  writing  materials  for  a 
letter  which  I  will  dictate  to  you.' 


286 


La  Grenadière 


When  she  saw  that  he  was  ready  to  begin,  and  turned 
towards  her  for  the  words,  they  came  from  her  quietly  : — 

4  Monsieur  le  Comte,  your  wife,  Lady  Brandon,  died 
at  Saint-Cyr,  near  Tours,  in  the  department  of  Indre-et- 
Loire.    She  forgave  you.' 

'Sign  yourself  ,'  she  stopped,  hesitating  and  per- 
turbed. 

4  Are  you  feeling  worse  ?  '  asked  Louis. 
4  Put  "  Louis-Gaston,"  \  she  said. 
She  sighed,  then  she  went  on. 

'Seal  the  letter,  and  direct  it.  To  Lord  Brandon, 
Brandon  Square,  Hyde  Park,  London,  Angleterre. — 
That  is  right.  When  I  am  dead,  post  the  letter  in 
Tours,  and  prepay  the  postage. — Now,'  she  added, 
after  a  pause,  'take  the  little  pocket-book  that  you 
know,  and  come  here,  my  dear  child.  .  .  .  There  are 
twelve  thousand  francs  in  it,'  she  said,  when  Louis  had 
returned  to  her  side.  4  That  is  all  your  own.  Oh  me  ! 
you  would  have  been  better  off  if  your  father  1 

4  My  father,'  cried  the  boy,  c  where  is  he  ?  ' 

4  He  is  dead,'  she  said,  laying  her  finger  on  her  lips  5 
i  he  died  to  save  my  honour  and  my  life.' 

She  looked  upwards.  If  any  tears  had  been  left  to 
her,  she  could  have  wept  for  pain. 

c  Louis,'  she  continued,  1  swear  to  me,  as  I  lie  here, 
that  you  will  forget  all  that  you  have  written,  all  that  I 
have  told  you.' 

4  Yes,  mother.' 

1  Kiss  me,  dear  angel.* 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  while,  she  seemed  to  be 
drawing  strength  from  God,  and  to  be  measuring  her 
words  by  the  life  that  remained  in  her. 

4  Listen,'  she  began.  4  Those  twelve  thousand  francs 
are  all  that  you  have  in  the  world.  You  must  keep  the 
money  upon  you,  because  when  I  am  dead  the  lawyers 


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287 


will  come  and  seal  everything  up.  Nothing  will  be 
yours  then,  not  even  your  mother.  All  that  remains  for 
you  to  do  will  be  to  go  out,  poor  orphan  children,  God 
knows  where.  I  have  made  Annette's  future  secure. 
She  will  have  an  annuity  of  a  hundred  crowns,  and  she 
will  stay  at  Tours  no  doubt.  But  what  will  you  do  for 
yourself  and  your  brother  ? 9 

She  raised  herself,  and  looked  at  the  brave  child, 
standing  by  her  bedside.  There  were  drops  of  perspira- 
tion on  his  forehead,  he  was  pale  with  emotion,  and  his 
eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 

c  I  have  thought  it  over,  mother,'  he  answered  in  a 
deep  voice.  1 1  will  take  Marie  to  the  school  here  in 
Tours.  I  will  give  ten  thousand  francs  to  our  old 
Annette,  and  ask  her  to  take  care  of  them,  and  to  look 
after  Marie.  Then,  with  the  remaining  two  thousand 
francs,  I  will  go  to  Brest,  and  go  to  sea  as  an  apprentice. 
While  Marie  is  at  school,  I  will  rise  to  be  a  lieutenant 
on  board  a  man-of-war.  There,  after  all,  die  in  peace, 
my  mother  $  I  shall  come  back  again  a  rich  man,  and 
our  little  one  shall  go  to  the  École  polytechnique,  and  I 
will  find  a  career  to  suit  his  bent.' 

A  gleam  of  joy  shone  in  the  dying  woman's  eyes. 
Two  tears  brimmed  over,  and  fell  over  her  fevered 
cheeks  \  then  a  deep  sigh  escaped  between  her  lips.  The 
sudden  joy  of  finding  the  father's  spirit  in  the  son,  who 
had  grown  all  at  once  to  be  a  man,  almost  killed  her. 

*  Angel  of  heaven,'  she  cried,  weeping,  *  by  one  word 
you  have  effaced  all  my  sorrows.  Ah  !  I  can  bear  them. 
— This  is  my  son,'  she  said,  4  I  bore,  I  reared  this  man,' 
and  she  raised  her  hands  above  her,  and  clasped  them  as 
if  in  ecstasy,  then  she  lay  back  on  the  pillow. 

*  Mother,  your  face  is  growing  pale  !  *  cried  the  lad. 

1  Some  one  must  go  for  a  priest,'  she  answered,  with  a 
dying  voice. 

Louis  wakened  Annette,  and  the  terrified  old  woman 
hurried  to  the  parsonage  at  Saint-Cyr. 


288 


La  Grenadière 


When  morning  came,  Mme.  Willemsens  received  the 
sacrament  amid  the  most  touching  surroundings.  Her 
children  were  kneeling  in  the  room,  with  Annette  and 
the  vinedresser's  family,  simple  folk,  who  had  already 
become  part  of  the  household.  The  silver  crucifix, 
carried  by  a  chorister,  a  peasant  child  from  the  village, 
was  lifted  up,  and  the  dying  mother  received  the 
Viaticum  from  an  aged  priest.  The  Viaticum  !  sublime 
word,  containing  an  idea  yet  more  sublime,  an  idea  only 
possessed  by  the  apostolic  religion  of  the  Roman  church. 

*  This  woman  has  suffered  greatly  !  '  the  old  curé  said 
in  his  simple  way. 

Marie  Willemsens  heard  no  voices  now,  but  her  eyes 
were  still  fixed  upon  her  children.  Those  about  her 
listened  in  terror  to  her  breathing  in  the  deep  silence  \ 
already  it  came  more  slowly,  though  at  intervals  a  deep 
sigh  told  them  that  she  still  lived,  and  of  a  struggle 
within  her  ;  then  at  last  it  ceased.  Every  one  burst  into 
tears  except  Marie.  He,  poor  child,  was  still  too  young 
to  know  what  death  meant. 

Annette  and  the  vinedresser's  wife  closed  the  eyes  of 
the  adorable  woman,  whose  beauty  shone  out  in  all  its 
radiance  after  death.  Then  the  women  took  possession 
of  the  chamber  of  death,  removed  the  furniture, 
wrapped  the  dead  in  her  winding-sheet,  and  laid  her 
upon  the  couch.  They  lit  tapers  about  her,  and  arranged 
everything — the  crucifix,  the  sprigs  of  box,  and  the  holy- 
water  stoup — after  the  custom  of  the  countryside, 
bolting  the  shutters  and  drawing  the  curtains.  Later 
the  curate  came  to  pass  the  night  in  prayer  with  Louis, 
who  refused  to  leave  his  mother.  On  Tuesday  morning 
an  old  woman  and  two  children  and  a  vinedresser's  wife 
followed  the  dead  to  her  grave.  These  were  the  only 
mourners.  Yet  this  was  a  woman  whose  wit  and  beauty 
and  charm  had  won  a  European  reputation,  a  woman 
whose  funeral,  if  it  had  taken  place  in  London,  w©uld  ' 
have  been  recorded  in  pompous  newspaper  paragraphs,  1 


La  Grenadière 


as  a  sort  of  aristocratie  rite,  if  she  had  not  committed 
the  sweetest  of  crimes,  a  crime  always  expiated  in  this 
world,  so  that  the  pardoned  spirit  may  enter  heaven. 
Marie  cried  when  they  threw  the  earth  on  his  mother's 
coffin  ;  he  understood  that  he  should  see  her  no  more. 

A  simple,  wooden  cross,  set  up  to  mark  her  grave,  bore 
this  inscription,  due  to  the  curé  of  Saint-Cyr  : — 

HERE  LIES 

AN  UNHAPPY  WOMAN, 

WHO  DIED  AT  THE  AGE  OF  THIRTY-SIX. 
KNOWN  IN  HEAVEN  BY  THE  NAME  OF  AUGUSTA. 

Pray  for  her! 

When  all  was  over,  the  children  came  back  to  La 
Grenadière  to  take  a  last  look  at  their  home  ;  then,  hand 
in  hand,  they  turned  to  go  with  Annette,  leaving  the 
vinedresser  in  charge,  with  directions  to  hand  over  every- 
thing duly  to  the  proper  authorities. 

At  this  moment,  Annette  called  to  Louis  from  the 
steps  by  the  kitchen  door,  and  took  him  aside  with,  c  Here 
is  madame's  ring,  Monsieur  Louis.' 

The  sight  of  this  vivid  remembrance  of  his  dead 
mother  moved  him  so  deeply  that  he  wept.  In  his 
fortitude,  he  had  not  even  thought  of  this  supreme  piety  ; 
and  he  flung  his  arms  round  the  old  woman's  neck. 
Then  the  three  set  out  down  the  beaten  path,  and  the 
stone  staircase,  and  so  to  Tours,  without  turning  their 
heads. 

i  Mamma  used  to  come  there  !  '  Marie  said  when  they 
reached  the  bridge. 

Annette  had  a  relative,  a  retired  dressmaker,  who 
lived  in  the  Rue  de  la  Guerche.  She  took  the  two 
children  to  this  cousin's  house,  meaning  that  they  should 

T 


290 


La  Grenadière 


live  together  thenceforth.  But  Louis  told  her  of  his 
plans,  gave  Marie's  certificate  of  birth  and  the  ten  thou- 
sand francs  into  her  keeping,  and  the  two  went  the  next 
morning  to  take  Marie  to  school. 

Louis  very  briefly  explained  his  position  to  the  head- 
master, and  went.  Marie  came  with  him  as  far  as  the 
gateway.  There  Louis  gave  solemn  parting  words  of 
the  tenderest  counsel,  telling  Marie  that  he  would  now 
be  left  alone  in  the  world.  He  looked  at  his  brother  for 
a  moment,  and  put  his  arms  about  him,  took  one  more 
long  look,  brushed  a  tear  from  his  eyes,  and  went,  turn- 
ing again  and  again  till  the  very  last  to  see  his  brother 
standing  there  in  the  gateway  of  the  school. 

A  month  later  Louis-Gaston,  now  an  apprentice  on 
board  a  man-of-war,  left  the  harbour  of  Rochefort. 
Leaning  over  the  bulwarks  of  the  corvette  Iris*  he 
watched  the  coast  of  France  receding  swiftly  till  it 
became  indistinguishable  from  the  faint,  blue  horizon 
line.  In  a  little  while  he  felt  that  he  was  really  alone, 
and  lost  in  the  wide  ocean,  lost  and  alone  in  the  world 
and  in  life. 

c  There  is  no  need  to  cry,  lad  ;  there  is  a  God  for  us 
all,'  said  an  old  sailor,  with  rough  kindliness  in  his  thick 
voice. 

The  boy  thanked  him  with  pride  in  his  eyes.  Then 
he  bowed  his  head,  and  resigned  himself  to  a  sailor's  life. 
He  was  a  father. 


Angouleme,  August  1832. 


THE  MESSAGE 


To  M.  le  Marquis  Damaso  Pareto 

I  have  always  longed  to  tell  a  simple  and  true  story, 
which  should  strike  terror  into  two  young  lovers,  and 
drive  them  to  take  refuge  each  in  the  other's  heart,  as 
two  children  cling  together  at  the  I  sight  of  a  snake 
by  a  wood-side.  At  the  risk  of  spoiling  my  story  and 
of  being  taken  for  a  coxcomb,  I  state  my  intention  at  the 
outset. 

I  myself  played  a  part  in  this  almost  commonplace 
tragedy  ;  so  if  it  fails  to  interest  you,  the  failure  will  be 
in  part  my  own  fault,  in  part  owing  to  historical  vera- 
city. Plenty  of  things  in  real  life  are  superlatively 
uninteresting  ;  so  that  it  is  one-half  of  art  to  select  from 
realities  those  which  contain  possibilities  of  poetry. 

In  1 8 19  I  was  travelling  from  Paris  to  Moulins.  The 
state  of  my  finances  obliged  me  to  take  an  outside  place. 
Englishmen,  as  you  know,  regard  those  airy  perches  on 
the  top  of  the  coach  as  the  best  seats  ;  and  for  the  first 
few  miles  I  discovered  abundance  of  excellent  reasons  for 
justifying  the  opinion  of  our  neighbours.  A  young 
fellow,  apparently  in  somewhat  better  circumstances, 
who  came  to  take  the  seat  beside  me  from  preference, 
listened  to  my  reasoning  with  inoffensive  smiles.  An 
approximate  nearness  of  age,  a  similarity  in  ways  of 
thinking,  a  common  love  of  fresh  air,  and  of  the  rich 
landscape  scenery  through  which  the  coach  was  lumber- 

291 


292 


The  Message 


ing  along, — these  things,  together  with  an  indescribable 
magnetic  something,  drew  us  before  long  into  one  of 
those  short-lived  traveller's  intimacies,  in  which  we 
unbend  with  the  more  complacency  because  the  inter- 
course is  by  its  very  nature  transient,  and  makes  no 
implicit  demands  upon  the  future. 

We  had  not  come  thirty  leagues  before  we  were 
talking  of  women  and  of  love.  Then,  with  all  the 
circumspection  demanded  in  such  matters,  we  proceeded 
naturally  to  the  topic  of  our  lady-loves.  Young  as  we 
both  were,  we  still  admired  c  the  woman  of  a  certain 
age,'  that  is  to  say,  the  woman  between  thirty-five  and 
forty.  Oh  !  any  poet  who  should  have  listened  to  our 
talk,  for  heaven  knows  how  many  stages  beyond  Mon- 
targis,  would  have  reaped  a  harvest  of  flaming  epithet, 
rapturous  description,  and  very  tender  confidences.  Our 
bashful  fears,  our  silent  interjections,  our  blushes,  as  we 
met  each  other's  eyes,  were  expressive  with  an  eloquence, 
a  boyish  charm,  which  I  have  ceased  to  feel.  One 
must  remain  young,  no  doubt,  to  understand  youth. 

Well,  we  understood  one  another  to  admiration  on  all 
the  essential  points  of  passion.  We  had  laid  it  down  as 
an  axiom  at  the  very  outset,  that  in  theory  and  practice 
there  was  no  such  piece  of  drivelling  nonsense  in  this 
world  as  a  certificate  of  birth  ;  that  plenty  of  women 
were  younger  at  forty  than  many  a  girl  of  twenty  -y  and, 
to  come  to  the  point,  that  a  woman  is  no  older  than  she 
looks. 

This  theory  set  no  limits  to  the  age  of  love,  so  we 
struck  out,  in  all  good  faith,  into  a  boundless  sea.  At 
length,  when  we  had  portrayed  our  mistresses  as  young, 
charming,  and  devoted  to  us,  women  of  rank,  women  of 
taste,  intellectual  and  clever  ;  when  we  had  endowed 
them  with  little  feet,  a  satin,  nay,  a  delicately  fragrant 
skin,  then  came  the  admission — on  his  part  that  Madame 
Such-an-one  was  thirty-eight  years  old,  and  on  mine, 
that  I  worshipped  a  woman  of  forty.    Whereupon,  as  if 


The  Message  193 


released  on  either  side  from  some  kind  of  vague  fear, 
our  confidences  came  thick  and  fast,  when  we  found 
that  we  were  of  the  same  confraternity  of  love.  It 
was  which  of  us  should  overtop  the  other  in  sen- 
timent. 

One  of  us  had  travelled  six  hundred  miles  to  see  his 
mistress  for  an  hour.  The  other,  at  the  risk  of  being 
shot  for  a  wolf,  had  prowled  about  her  park  to  meet  her 
one  night.  Out  came  all  our  follies  in  fact.  If  it  is 
pleasant  to  remember  past  dangers,  is  it  not  at  least  as 
pleasant  to  recall  past  delights  ?  We  live  through  the  joy 
a  second  time.  We  told  each  other  everything,  our  perils, 
our  great  joys,  our  little  pleasures,  and  even  the  hum- 
ours of  the  situation.  My  friend's  countess  had  lighted 
a  cigar  for  him  ;  mine  made  chocolate  for  me,  and  wrote 
to  me  every  day  when  we  did  not  meet  ;  his  lady  had 
come  to  spend  three  days  with  him  at  the  risk  of  ruin  to 
her  reputation  ;  mine  had  done  even  better,  or  worse,  if 
you  will  have  it  so.  Our  countesses,  moreover,  were 
adored  by  their  husbands  ;  these  gentlemen  were  en- 
slaved by  the  charm  possessed  by  every  woman  who 
loves  ;  and,  with  even  supererogatory  simplicity,  afforded 
us  that  just  sufficient  spice  of  danger  which  increases 
pleasure.  Ah  !  how  quickly  the  wind  swept  away  our 
talk  and  our  happy  laughter  ! 

When  we  reached  Pouilly,  I  scanned  my  new  friend 
with  much  interest,  and  truly,  it  was  not  difficult  to 
imagine  him  the  hero  of  a  very  serious  love  affair. 
Picture  to  yourselves  a  young  man  of  middle  height,  but 
very  well  proportioned,  a  bright,  expressive  face,  dark 
hair,  blue  eyes,  moist  lips,  and  white  and  even  teeth.  A 
certain  not  unbecoming  pallor  still  overspread  his 
delicately  cut  features,  and  there  were  faint,  dark  circles 
about  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  recovering  from  an  illness. 
Add,  furthermore,  that  he  had  white  and  shapely  hands, 
of  which  he  was  as  careful  as  a  pretty  woman  should  be  ; 
add  that  he  seemed  to  be  very  well  informed,  and  was 


294  The  Message 

decidedly  clever,  and  it  should  not  be  difficult  for  you  to 
imagine  that  my  travelling  companion  was  more  than 
worthy  of  a  countess.  Indeed,  many  a  girl  might  have 
wished  for  such  a  husband,  for  he  was  a  Vicomte  with 
an  income  of  twelve  or  fifteen  thousand  livres,  €to  say 
nothing  of  expectations.' 

About  a  league  out  of  Pouilly  the  coach  was  over- 
turned. My  luckless  comrade,  thinking  to  save  himself, 
jumped  to  the  edge  of  a  newly  ploughed  field,  instead  of 
following  the  fortunes  of  the  vehicle  and  clinging  tightly 
to  the  roof,  as  I  did.  He  either  miscalculated  in  some 
way,  or  he  slipped  ;  how  it  happened,  I  do  not  know, 
but  the  coach  fell  over  upon  him,  and  he  was  crushed 
under  it. 

We  carried  him  into  a  peasant's  cottage,  and  there, 
amid  the  moans  wrung  from  him  by  horrible  sufferings, 
he  contrived  to  give  me  a  commission — a  sacred  task,  in 
that  it  was  laid  upon  me  by  a  dying  man's  last  wish. 
Poor  boy,  all  through  his  agony  he  was  torturing  him- 
self in  his  young  simplicity  of  heart  with  the  thought  of 
the  painful  shock  to  his  mistress  when  she  should 
suddenly  read  of  his  death  in  a  newspaper.  He  begged 
me  to  go  myself  to  break  the  news  to  her.  He  bade 
me  look  for  a  key  which  he  wore  on  a  ribbon  about 
his  neck.  I  found  it  half  buried  in  the  flesh,  but 
the  dying  boy  did  not  utter  a  sound  as  I  extricated  it  as 
gently  as  possible  from  the  wound  which  it  had  made. 
He  had  scarcely  given  me  the  necessary  directions — I 
was  to  go  to  his  home  at  La  Charité-sur-Loire  for  his 
mistress's  love-letters,  which  he  conjured  me  to  return 
to  her — when  he  grew  speechless  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence  ;  but  from  his  last  gesture,  I  understood  that 
the  fatal  key  would  be  my  passport  in  his  mother's 
house.  It  troubled  him  that  he  was  powerless  to  utter 
a  single  word  to  thank  me,  for  of  my  wish  to  serve  him  he 
had  no  doubt.  He  looked  wistfully  at  me  for  a  moment, 
then  his  eyelids  drooped  in  token  of  farewell,  and  his  jj 


The  Message 


*95 


head  sank,  and  he  died.  His  death  was  the  only  fatal 
accident  caused  by  the  overturn. 

i  But  it  was  partly  his  own  fault/  the  coachman  said 
to  me. 

At  La  Charité,  I  executed  the  poor  fellow's  dying 
wishes.  His  mother  was  away  from  home,  which  in 
a  manner  was  fortunate  for  me.  Nevertheless,  I  had  to 
assuage  the  grief  of  an  old  woman-servant,  who  staggered 
back  at  the  tidings  of  her  young  master's  death,  and 
sank  half-dead  into  a  chair  when  she  saw  the  blood- 
stained key.  But  I  had  another  and  more  dreadful 
sorrow  to  think  of,  the  sorrow  of  a  woman  who  had 
lost  her  last  love  $  so  I  left  the  old  woman  to  her 
prosopopeia,  and  carried  off  the  precious  correspondence, 
carefully  sealed  by  my  friend  of  a  day. 

The  Countess's  chateau  was  some  eight  leagues  be- 
yond Moulins,  and  then  there  was  some  distance  to  walk 
across  country.  So  it  was  not  exactly  an  easy  matter  to 
deliver  my  message.  For  diverse  reasons  into  which  I 
need  not  enter,  I  had  barely  sufficient  money  to  take 
me  to  Moulins.  However,  my  youthful  enthusiasm 
determined  to  hasten  thither  on  foot  as  fast  as  possible. 
Bad  news  travels  swiftly,  and  I  wished  to  be  first  at  the 
chateau.  I  asked  for  the  shortest  way,  and  hurried 
through  the  field  paths  of  the  Bourbonnais,  bearing,  as 
it  were,  a  dead  man  on  my  back.  The  nearer  I  came 
to  the  Chateau  de  Montpersan,  the  more  aghast  I  felt 
at  the  idea  of  my  strange  self-imposed  pilgrimage. 
Vast  numbers  of  romantic  fancies  ran  in  my  haed. 
I  imagined  all  kinds  of  situations  in  which  I  might  find 
this  Comtesse  de  Montpersan,  or,  to  observe  the  laws 
of  romance,  this  Juliette,  so  passionately  beloved  of  my 
travelling  companion.  I  sketched  out  ingenious  answers 
to  the  questions  which  she  might  be  supposed  to  put  to 
me.  At  every  turn  of  a  wood,  in  every  beaten  pathway, 
I  rehearsed  a  modern  version  of  the  scene  in  which 
Sosie  describes  the  battle  to  his  lantern.    To  my  shame 


296  The  Message 


be  it  said,  I  had  thought  at  first  of  nothing  but  the  part 
that  /  was  to  play,  of  my  own  cleverness,  of  how  I 
should  demean  myself;  but  now  that  I  was  in  the 
country,  an  ominous  thought  flashed  through  my  soul 
like  a  thunderbolt  tearing  its  way  through  a  veil  of 
grey  cloud. 

What  an  awful  piece  of  news  it  was  for  a  woman 
whose  whole  thoughts  were  full  of  her  young  lover,  who 
was  looking  forward  hour  by  hour  to  a  joy  which  no 
words  can  express,  a  woman  who  had  been  at  a  world  of 
pains  to  invent  plausible  pretexts  to  draw  him  to  her 
side.  Yet,  after  all,  it  was  a  cruel  deed  of  charity  to  be 
the  messenger  of  death  !  So  I  hurried  on,  splashing  and 
bemiring  myself  in  the  by-ways  of  the  Bourbonnais. 

Before  very  long  I  reached  a  great  chestnut  avenue 
with  a  pile  of  buildings  at  the  further  end — the  Chateau 
of  Montpersan  stood  out  against  the  sky  like  a  mass  of 
brown  cloud,  with  sharp,  fantastic  outlines.  All  the 
doors  of  the  chateau  stood  open.  This  in  itself  dis- 
concerted me,  and  routed  all  my  plans  ->  but  I  went  in 
boldly,  and  in  a  moment  found  myself  between  a  couple 
of  dogs,  barking  as  your  true  country-bred  animal  can 
bark.  The  sound  brought  out  a  hurrying  servant-maid  ; 
who,  when  informed  that  I  wished  to  speak  to  Mme.  la 
Comtesse,  waved  a  hand  towards  the  masses  of  trees  in 
the  English  park  which  wound  about  the  château,  with 
c  Madame  is  out  there  \ 

'Many  thanks,'  said  I  ironically.  I  might  have 
wandered  for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  park  with  her 
c  out  there  '  to  guide  me. 

In  the  meantime,  a  pretty  little  girl,  with  curling  hair, 
dressed  in  a  white  frock,  a  rose-coloured  sash,  and  a  broad 
frill  at  the  throat,  had  overheard  or  guessed  the  question 
and  its  answer.  She  gave  me  a  glance  and  vanished, 
calling  in  shrill,  childish  tones — 

4  Mother  !  here  is  a  gentleman  who  wishes  to  speak 
to  you  !  • 


The  Message  297 


And,  along  the  winding  alleys,  I  followed  the  skip- 
ping and  dancing  white  frill,  a  sort  of  will-o'-the-wisp, 
that  showed  me  the  way  among  the  trees. 

I  must  make  a  full  confession.  I  stopped  behind  the 
last  shrub  in  the  avenue,  pulled  up  my  collar,  rubbed 
my  shabby  hat  and  my  trousers  with  the  cuffs  of  my 
sleeves,  dusted  my  coat  with  the  sleeves  themselves,  and 
gave  them  a  final  cleansing  rub  one  against  the  other.  I 
buttoned  my  coat  carefully  so  as  to  exhibit  the  inner, 
always  the  least  worn,  side  of  the  cloth,  and  finally 
had  turned  down  the  tops  of  my  trousers  over  my  boots, 
artistically  cleaned  in  the  grass.  Thanks  to  this  Gascon 
toilet,  I  could  hope  that  the  lady  would  not  take  me  for 
the  local  rate  collector  ;  but  now  when  my  thoughts 
travel  back  to  that  episode  of  my  youth,  I  sometimes 
laugh  at  my  own  expense. 

Suddenly,  just  as  I  was  composing  myself,  at  a  turning 
in  the  green  walk,  among  a  wilderness  of  flowers  lighted 
up  by  a  hot  ray  of  sunlight,  I  saw  Juliette — Juliette  and 
her  husband.  The  pretty  little  girl  held  her  mother 
by  the  hand,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  lady  had 
quickened  her  pace  somewhat  at  the  child's  ambiguous 
phrase.  Taken  aback  by  the  sight  of  a  total  stranger, 
who  bowed  with  a  tolerably  awkward  air,  she  looked  at 
me  with  a  coolly  courteous  expression  and  an  adorable 
pout,  in  which  I,  who  knew  her  secret,  could  read  the 
full  extent  of  her  disappointment.  I  sought,  but  sought 
in  vain,  to  remember  any  of  the  elegant  phrases  so 
laboriously  prepared. 

This  momentary  hesitation  gave  the  lady's  husband 
time  to  come  forward.  Thoughts  by  the  myriad  flitted 
through  my  brain.  To  give  myself  a  countenance,  I 
got  out  a  few  sufficiently  feeble  inquiries,  asking  whether 
the  persons  present  were  really  M.  le  Comte  and  Mme. 
la  Comtesse  de  Montpersan.  These  imbecilities  gave 
me  time  to  form  my  own  conclusions  at  a  glance,  and, 
with  a  perspicacity  rare  at  that  age,  to  analyse  the  husband 


298  The  Message 


and  wife  whose  solitude  was  about  to  be  so  rudely 
disturbed. 

The  husband  seemed  to  be  a  specimen  of  a  certain 
type  of  nobleman,  the  fairest  ornaments  of  the  provinces 
of  our  day.  He  wore  big  shoes  with  stout  soles  to 
them.  I  put  the  shoes  first  advisedly,  for  they  made  an 
even  deeper  impression  upon  me  than  a  seedy  black 
coat,  a  pair  of  threadbare  trousers,  a  flabby  cravat,  or  a 
crumpled  shirt  collar.  There  was  a  touch  of  the  magis- 
trate in  the  man,  a  good  deal  more  of  the  Councillor  of 
the  Prefecture,  all  the  self-importance  of  the  mayor  of 
the  arrondissement,  the  local  autocrat,  and  the  soured 
temper  of  the  unsuccessful  candidate  who  has  never  been 
returned  since  the  year  18 16.  As  to  countenance — a 
wizened,  wrinkled,  sunburned  face,  and  long,  sleek  locks 
of  scanty  grey  hair;  as  to  character — an  incredible 
mixture  of  homely  sense  and  sheer  silliness  ;  of  a  rich 
man's  overbearing  ways,  and  a  total  lack  of  manners  ; 
just  the  kind  of  husband  who  is  almost  entirely  led  by 
his  wife,  yet  imagines  himself  to  be  the  master  ;  apt  to 
domineer  in  trifles,  and  to  let  more  important  things 
slip  past  unheeded — there  you  have  the  man  ! 

But  the  Countess  !  Ah,  how  sharp  and  startling  the 
contrast  between  husband  and  wife  !  The  Countess 
was  a  little  woman,  with  a  flat,  graceful  figure  and 
enchanting  shape  ;  so  fragile,  so  dainty  was  she,  that  you 
would  have  feared  to  break  some  bone  if  you  so  much  as 
touched  her.  She  wore  a  white  muslin  dress,  a  rose- 
coloured  sash,  and  rose-coloured  ribbons  in  the  pretty  cap 
on  her  head  ;  her  chemisette  was  moulded  so  deliciously 
by  her  shoulders  and  the  loveliest  rounded  contours, 
that  the  sight  of  her  awakened  an  irresistible  desire  of 
possession  in  the  depths  of  the  heart.  Her  eyes  were 
bright  and  dark  and  expressive,  her  movements  graceful, 
her  foot  charming.  An  experienced  man  of  pleasure 
would  not  have  given  her  more  than  thirty  years,  her 
forehead  was  so  girlish.    She  had  all  the  most  transient 


The  Message  299 

delicate  detail  of  youth  in  her  face.  In  character  she 
seemed  to  me  to  resemble  the  Comtesse  de  Lignolles  and 

the  Marquise  de  B  ,  two  feminine  types  always  fresh 

in  the  memory  of  any  young  man  who  has  read  Louvet's 
romance. 

In  a  moment  I  saw  how  things  stood,  and  took  a 
diplomatic  course  that  would  have  done  credit  to  an  old 
ambassador.  For  once,  and  perhaps  for  the  only  time  in 
my  life,  I  used  tact,  and  knew  in  what  the  special  skill  of 
courtiers  and  men  of  the  world  consists. 

I  have  had  so  many  battles  to  fight  since  those  heed- 
less days,  that  they  have  left  me  no  time  to  distil  all  the 
least  actions  of  daily  life,  and  to  do  everything  so  that  it 
falls  in  with  those  rules  of  etiquette  and  good  taste  which 
wither  the  most  generous  emotions. 

4  M.  le  Comte,'  I  said  with  an  air  of  mystery,  1  I 
should  like  a  few  words  with  you,'  and  I  fell  back  a  pace 
or  two. 

He  followed  my  example.  Juliette  left  us  together, 
going  away  unconcernedly,  like  a  wife  who  knew  that 
she  can  learn  her  husband's  secrets  as  soon  as  she  chooses 
to  know  them. 

I  told  the  Comte  briefly  of  the  death  of  my  travelling 
companion.  The  effect  produced  by  my  news  convinced 
me  that  his  affection  for  his  young  collaborator  was 
cordial  enough,  and  this  emboldened  me  to  make  reply 
as  I  did. 

c  My  wife  will  be  in  despair,'  cried  he  ;  i  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  break  the  news  of  this  unhappy  event  with 
great  caution.' 

4  Monsieur,'  said  I,  4 1  addressed  myself  to  you  in  the 
first  instance,  as  in  duty  bound.  I  could  not,  without 
first  informing  you,  deliver  a  message  to  Mme.  la  Com- 
tesse, a  message  intrustèd  to  me  by  an  entire  stranger  ; 
but  this  commission  is  a  sort  of  sacred  trust,  a  secret  of 
which  I  have  no  power  to  dispose.  From  the  high  idea 
of  your  character  which  he  gave  me,  I  felt  sure  that  you 


3oo 


The  Message 


would  not  oppose  me  in  the  fulfilment  of  a  dying 
request.  Mme.  la  Comtesse  will  be  at  liberty  to  break 
the  silence  which  is  imposed  upon  me.' 

At  this  eulogy,  the  Count  swung  his  head  very 
amiably,  responded  with  a  tolerably  involved  compli- 
ment, and  finally  left  me  a  free  field.  We  returned  to 
the  house.  The  bell  rang,  and  I  was  invited  to  dinner. 
As  we  came  up  to  the  house,  a  grave  and  silent  couple, 
Juliette  stole  a  glance  at  us.  Not  a  little  surprised  to 
find  her  husband  contriving  some  frivolous  excuse  for 
leaving  us  together,  she  stopped  short,  giving  me  a 
glance — such  a  glance  as  women  only  can  give  you.  In 
that  look  of  hers  there  was  the  pardonable  curiosity  of 
the  mistress  of  the  house  confronted  with  a  guest 
dropped  down  upon  her  from  the  skies,  and  innumerable 
doubts,  certainly  warranted  by  the  state  of  my  clothes, 
by  my  youth  and  my  expression,  all  singularly  at 
variance  ;  there  was  all  the  disdain  of  the  adored  mis- 
tress, in  whose  eyes  all  men  save  one  are  as  nothing  ; 
there  were  involuntary  tremors  and  alarms  ;  and,  above 
all,  the  thought  that  it  was  tiresome  to  have  an  unexpected 
guest  just  now,  when,  no  doubt,  she  had  been  scheming 
to  enjoy  full  solitude  for  her  love.  This  mute  eloquence 
1  understood  in  her  eyes,  and  all  the  pity  and  compassion 
in  me  made  answer  in  a  sad  smile.  I  thought  of  her,  as 
I  had  seen  her  for  one  moment,  in  the  pride  of  her 
beauty  ;  standing  in  the  sunny  afternoon  in  the  narrow 
alley  with  the  flowers  on  either  hand  ;  and  as  that  fair 
wonderful  picture  rose  before  my  eyes,  I  could  not 
repress  a  sigh. 

4  Alas  !  madame,  I  have  just  made  a  very  arduous  jour- 
ney ,  undertaken  solely  on  your  account.' 

c  Oh  !  it  is  on  behalf  of  one  who  calls  you  Juliette 
that  I  am  come,'  I  continued.    Her  face  grew  white. 
c  You  will  not  see  him  to-day.' 
4  Is  he  ill  ? 9  she  asked,  and  her  voice  sank  lower. 


The  Message  301 


*Yes.  But  for  pity's  sake,  control  yourself.  .  .  .  He 
intrusted  me  with  secrets  that  concern  you,  and  you 
may  be  sure  that  never  messenger  could  be  more  discreet 
nor  more  devoted  than  L\ 

1  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  ' 

c  How  if  he  loved  you  no  longer  ?  ? 

*  Oh  !  that  is  impossible  ! 9  she  cried,  and  a  faint  smile, 
nothing  less  than  frank,  broke  over  her  face.  Then  all 
at  once  a  kind  of  shudder  ran  through  her,  and  she 
reddened,  and  she  gave  me  a  wild,  swift  glance  as  she 
asked — 

c  Is  he  alive  ?  ' 

Great  God  !  What  a  terrible  phrase  !  I  was  too 
young  to  bear  that  tone  in  her  voice  ;  I  made  no  reply, 
only  looked  at  the  unhappy  woman  in  helpless  bewilder- 
ment. 

*  Monsieur,  monsieur,  give  me  an  answer  !  I  she  cried. 
'  Yes,  madame.' 

c  Is  it  true  ?  Oh  !  tell  me  the  truth  ;  I  can  hear  the 
truth.  Tell  me  the  truth  !  Any  pain  would  be  less 
keen  than  this  suspense.' 

I  answered  by  two  tears  wrung  from  me  by  that 
strange  tone  of  hers.  She  leant  against  a  tree  with  a 
faint,  sharp  cry. 

6  Madame,  here  comes  your  husband  !  ' 

c  Have  I  a  husband  ?  '  and  with  those  words  she  fled 
away  out  of  sight. 

c  Well,'  cried  the  Count,  c  dinner  is  growing  cold. — 
Come,  monsieur.' 

Thereupon  I  followed  the  master  of  the  house  into 
the  dining-room.  Dinner  was  served  with  all  the  luxury 
which  we  have  learned  to  expect  in  Paris.  There  were 
five  covers  laid,  three  for  the  Count  and  Countess  and 
their  little  daughter  ;  my  own,  which  should  have  been 
his  ;  and  another  for  the  canon  of  Saint-Denis,  who  said 
grace,  and  then  asked — 

*  Why,  where  can  our  dear  Countess  be  ? 9 


302 


The  Message 


i  Oh  !  she  will  be  here  directly,'  said  the  Count.  He 
had  hastily  helped  us  to  the  soup,  and  was  dispatching 
an  ample  plateful  with  portentous  speed. 

'Oh!  nephew,'  exclaimed  the  canon,  4 if  your  wife 
was  here,  you  would  behave  more  rationally.' 

cPapa  will  make  himself  ill!'  said  the  child  with  a 
mischievous  look. 

Just  after  this  extraordinary  gastronomical  episode, 
as  the  Count  was  eagerly  helping  himself  to  a  slice  of 
venison,  a  housemaid  came  in  with,  'We  cannot  find 
madame  anywhere,  sir  !  ' 

I  sprang  up  at  the  words  with  a  dread  in  my  mind, 
my  fears  written  so  plainly  in  my  face,  that  the  old 
canon  came  out  after  me  into  the  garden.  The  Count, 
for  the  sake  of  appearances,  came  as  far  as  the  threshold. 

i  Don't  go,  don't  go  !  '  called  he.  c  Don't  trouble  your- 
selves in  the  least,'  but  he  did  not  offer  to  accompany  us. 

We  three — the  canon,  the  housemaid,  and  I — hurried 
through  the  garden  walks  and  over  the  bowling-green  in 
the  park,  shouting,  listening  for  an  answer,  growing 
more  uneasy  every  moment.  As  we  hurried  along,  I 
told  the  story  of  the  fatal  accident,  and  discovered  how 
strongly  the  maid  was  attached  to  her  mistress,  for  she 
took  my  secret  dread  far  more  seriously  than  the  canon. 
We  went  along  by  the  pools  of  water  ;  all  over  the  park 
we  went  ;  but  we  neither  found  the  Countess  nor  any 
sign  that  she  had  passed  that  way.  At  last  we  turned 
back,  and  under  the  walls  of  some  outbuildings  I  heard  a 
smothered,  wailing  cry,  so  stifled  that  it  was  scarcely 
audible.  The  sound  seemed  to  come  from  a  place  that 
might  have  been  a  granary.  I  went  in  at  all  risks,  and 
there  we  found  Juliette.  With  the  instinct  of  despair, 
she  had  buried  herself  deep  in  the  hav,  hiding  her  face  in 
it  to  deaden  those  dreadful  cries — pudency  even  stronger 
than  grief.  She  was  sobbing  crying  like  a  child, 
but  there  was  a  more  poignant,  more  piteous  sound  in 
the  sobs.    There  was  nothing  left  in  the  world  for  her. 


The  Message 


303 


The  maid  pulled  the  hay  from  her,  her  mistress  sub- 
mitting with  the  supine  listlessness  of  a  dying  animal. 
The  maid  could  find  nothing  to  say  but  6  There  ! 
madame  ;  there,  there  

c  What  is  the  matter  with  her  ?  What  is  it,  niece  ? 9 
the  old  canon  kept  on  exclaiming. 

At  last,  with  the  girl's  help,  I  carried  Juliette  to  her 
room,  gave  orders  that  she  was  not  to  be  disturbed,  and 
that  every  one  must  be  told  that  the  Countess  was 
suffering  from  a  sick  headache.  Then  we  came  down 
to  the  dining-room,  the  canon  and  I. 

Some  little  time  had  passed  since  we  left  the  dinner- 
table  ;  I  had  scarcely  given  a  thought  to  the  Count  since 
we  left  him  under  the  peristyle  ;  his  indifference  had 
surprised  me,  but  my  amazement  increased  when  we 
came  back  and  found  him  seated  philosophically  at  table. 
He  had  eaten  pretty  nearly  all  the  dinner,  to  the  huge 
delight  of  his  little  daughter  ;  the  child  was  smiling  at 
her  father's  flagrant  infraction  of  the  Countess's  rules. 
The  man's  odd  indifference  was  explained  to  me  by  a 
mild  altercation  which  at  once  arose  with  the  canon. 
The  Count  was  suffering  from  some  serious  complaint. 
I  cannot  remember  now  what  it  was,  but  his  medical 
advisers  had  put  him  on  a  very  severe  regimen,  and  the 
ferocious  hunger  familiar  to  convalescents,  sheer  animal 
appetite,  had  overpowered  all  human  sensibilities.  In 
that  little  space  I  had  seen  frank  and  undisguised  human 
nature  under  two  very  different  aspects,  in  such  a  sort 
that  there  was  a  certain  grotesque  element  in  the  very 
midst  of  a  most  terrible  tragedy. 

The  evening  that  followed  was  dreary.  I  was  tired. 
The  canon  racked  his  brains  to  discover  a  reason  for  his 
niece's  tears.  The  lady's  husband  silently  digested  his 
dinner  ;  content,  apparently,  with  the  Countess's  rather 
vague  explanation,  sent  through  the  maid,  putting  for- 
ward some  feminine  ailment  as  her  excuse.  Wc  all 
went  early  to  bed. 


304  The  Message 


As  I  passed  the  door  of  the  Countess's  room  on  the 
way  to  my  night's  lodging,  I  asked  the  servant  timidly 
for  news  of  her.  She  heard  my  voice,  and  would  have 
me  come  in,  and  tried  to  talk,  but  in  vain — she  could  not 
utter  a  sound.  She  bent  her  head,  and  I  withdrew.  In 
spite  of  the  painful  agitation,  which  I  had  felt  to  the  full 
as  youth  can  feel,  I  fell  asleep,  tired  out  with  my  forced 
march. 

It  was  late  in  the  night  when  I  was  awakened  by  the 
grating  sound  of  curtain  rinçs  drawn  sharply  over  the 
metal  rods.  There  sat  the  Countess  at  the  foot  of  my 
bed.  The  light  from  a  lamp  set  on  my  table  fell  full 
upon  her  face. 

4  Is  it  really  true,  monsieur,  quite  true  ?  '  she  asked. 
4 1  do  not  know  how  I  can  live  after  that  awful  blow 
which  struck  me  down  a  little  while  since  ;  but  just 
now  I  feel  calm.    I  want  to  know  everything.' 

c  What  calm  !  '  I  said  to  myself  as  I  saw  the  ghastly 
pallor  of  her  face  contrasting  with  her  brown  hair,  and 
heard  the  guttural  tones  of  her  voice.  The  havoc 
wrought  in  her  drawn  features  filled  me  with  dumb 
amazement. 

Those  few  hours  had  bleached  her  ;  she  had  lost  a 
woman's  last  glow  of  autumn  colour.  Her  eyes  were 
red  and  swollen,  nothing  of  their  beauty  remained, 
nothing  looked  out  of  them  save  her  bitter  and  exceeding 
grief  ;  it  was  as  if  a  gray  cloud  covered  the  place 
through  which  the  sun  had  shone. 

I  gave  her  the  story  of  the  accident  in  a  few  words, 
without  laying  too  much  stress  on  some  too  harrowing 
details.  I  told  her  about  our  first  day's  journey,  and 
how  it  had  been  filled  with  recollections  of  her  and  of 
love.  And  she  listened  eagerly,  without  shedding  a  tear, 
leaning  her  face  towards  me,  as  some  zealous  doctor 
might  lean  to  watch  any  change  in  a  patient's  face. 
When  she  seemed  to  me  to  have  opened  her  whole 
heart  to  pain,  to  be  deliberately  plunging  herself  into 


The  Message  305 


misery  with  the  first  delirious  frenzy  of  despair,  I  caught 
at  my  opportunity,  and  told  her  of  the  fears  that  troubled 
the  poor  dying  man,  told  her  how  and  why  it  was  that 
he  had  given  me  this  fatal  message.  Then  her  tears 
were  dried  by  the  fires  that  burned  in  the  dark  depths 
within  her.  She  grew  even  paler.  When  I  drew  the 
letters  from  beneath  my  pillow  and  held  them  out  to  her, 
she  took  them  mechanically  ;  then,  trembling  from  head 
to  foot,  she  said  in  a  hollow  voice — 

c  And  /  burned  all  his  letters  ! — I  have  nothing  of  him 
left  ! — Nothing  !  nothing  !  ' 

She  struck  her  hand  against  her  forehead. 

'  Madame  '  I  began. 

She  glanced  at  me  in  the  convulsion  of  grief. 

4 1  cut  this  from  his  head,  this  lock  of  his  hair.' 

And  I  gave  her  that  last  imperishable  token  that  had 
been  a  very  part  of  him  she  loved.  Ah  !  if  you  had 
felt  as  I  felt  then,  her  burning  tears  falling  on  your 
hands,  you  would  know  what  gratitude  is,  when  it 
follows  so  closely  upon  the  benefit.  Her  eyes  shone 
with  a  feverish  glitter,  a  faint  ray  of  happiness  gleamed 
out  of  her  terrible  suffering,  as  she  grasped  my  hands  in 
hers,  and  said,  in  a  choking  voice — 

*  Ah  !  you  love  !  May  you  be  happy  always.  May 
you  never  lose  her  whom  you  love.' 

She  broke  off,  and  fled  away  with  her  treasure. 

Next  morning,  this  night-scene  among  my  dreams 
seemed  like  a  dream  ;  to  make  sure  of  the  piteous  truth, 
I  was  obliged  to  look  fruitlessly  under  my  pillow  for  the 
packet  of  letters.  There  is  no  need  to  tell  you  how  the 
next  day  went.  I  spent  several  hours  of  it  with  the 
Juliette  whom  my  poor  comrade  had  so  praised  to  me. 
In  her  lightest  words,  her  gestures,  in  all  that  she  did  and 
said,  I  saw  proofs  of  the  nobleness  of  soul,  the  delicacy 
of  feeling  which  made  her  what  she  was,  one  of  those 
beloved,  loving,  and  self-sacrificing  natures  so  rarely 
found  upon  this  earth. 

u 


306  The  Message 


In  the  evening  the  Comte  de  Montpersan  came  him- 
self as  far  as  Moulins  with  me.  There  he  spoke  with  a 
kind  of  embarrassment — 

4  Monsieur,  if  it  is  not  abusing  your  good-nature,  and 
acting  very  inconsiderately  towards  a  stranger  to  whom 
we  are  already  under  obligations,  would  you  have  the 
goodness,  as  you  are  going  to  Paris,  to  remit  a  sum 

of  money  to  M.  de          (I  forget  the  name),  in  the 

Rue  du  Sentier  ;  I  owe  him  an  amount,  and  he  asked 
me  to  send  it  as  soon  as  possible.' 

*  Willingly,'  said  L  And  in  the  innocence  of  my 
heart,  I  took  charge  of  a  rouleau  of  twenty-five  louis 
d'or,  which  paid  the  expenses  of  my  journey  back  to 
Paris  ;  and  only  when,  on  my  arrival,  I  went  to  the 
address  indicated  to  repay  the  amount  to  M.  de  Mont- 
persan's  correspondent,  did  I  understand  the  ingenious 
delicacy  with  which  Julie  had  obliged  me.  Was  not  all 
the  genius  of  a  loving  woman  revealed  in  such  a  way  of 
lending,  in  her  reticence  with  regard  to  a  poverty  easily 
guessed  ? 

And  what  rapture  to  have  this  adventure  to  tell  to  a 
woman  who  clung  to  you  more  closely  in  dread,  saying, 
c  Oh,  my  dear,  not  you  !  you  must  not  die  ! 9 


Paris,  January  1832. 


GOBSECK 


To  M.  le  Baron  Barchou  de  Penhoen. 

Among  all  the  pupils  of  the  Oratorian  school  at 
Vendôme,  we  are,  I  think,  the  only  two  who  have 
afterwards  met  in  mid-career  of  a  life  of  letters — 
we  who  once  were  cultivating  Philosophy  when  by 
rights  we  should  have  been  minding  our  De  viris. 
When  we  met,  you  were  engaged  upon  your  noble 
works  on  German  philosophy,  and  I  upon  this 
study.  So  neither  of  us  has  missed  his  vocation  ; 
and  you,  when  you  see  your  name  here,  will  feel, 
no  doubt,  as  much  pleasure  as  he  who  inscribes  his 
work  to  you. — Tour  old  schoolfellow, 

1840.  De  Balzac. 

It  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  during  the  winter  of 
1829-30,  but  in  the  Vicomtesse  de  Grandlieu's  salon 
two  persons  stayed  on  who  did  not  belong  to  her  family 
circle.  A  young  and  good-looking  man  heard  the 
clock  strike,  and  took  his  leave.  When  the  courtyard 
echoed  with  the  sound  of  a  departing  carriage,  the  Vicom- 
tesse looked  up,  saw  that  no  one  was  present  save  her 
brother  and  a  friend  of  the  family  finishing  their  game  of 
piquet,  and  went  across  to  her  daughter.  The  girl, 
standing  by  the  chimney-piece,  apparently  examining  a 
transparent  fire-screen,  was  listening  to  the  sounds  from 
the  courtyard  in  a  way  that  justified  certain  maternal 
fears. 

'Camille,'  said  the  Vicomtesse,  cif  you  continue  to 

807 


3o8 


Gobseck 


behave  to  young  Comte  de  Restaud  as  you  have  done 
this  evening,  you  will  oblige  me  to  see  no  more  of  him 
here.  Listen,  child,  and  if  you  have  any  confidence  in 
my  love,  let  me  guide  you  in  life.  At  seventeen  one 
cannot  judge  of  past  or  future,  nor  of  certain  social  con- 
siderations. I  have  only  one  thing  to  say  to  you.  M. 
de  Restaud  has  a  mother,  a  mother  who  would  waste 
millions  of  francs  ;  a  woman  of  no  birth,  a  Mlle.  Goriot  ; 
people  talked  a  good  deal  about  her  at  one  time.  She 
behaved  so  badly  to  her  own  father,  that  she  certainly 
does  not  deserve  to  have  so  good  a  son.  The  young 
Count  adores  her,  and  maintains  her  in  her  position 
with  dutifulness  worthy  of  all  praise,  and  he  is  ex- 
tremely good  to  his  brother  and  sister. — But  however 
admirable  his  behaviour  may  be,'  the  Vicomtesse  added 
with  a  shrewd  expression,  f  so  long  as  his  mother  lives, 
any  family  would  take  alarm  at  the  idea  of  intrusting  a 
daughter's  fortune  and  future  to  young  Restaud/ 

4 1  overheard  a  word  now  and  again  in  your  talk  with 
Mlle,  de  Grandlieu,'  cried  the  friend  of  the  family,  (  and 
it  made  me  anxious  to  put  in  a  word  of  my  own. — I 
have  won,  M.  le  Comte,'  he  added,  turning  to  his 
opponent.  4 I  shall  throw  you  over  and  go  to  your 
niece's  assistance.' 

4  See  what  it  is  to  have  an  attorney's  ears!'  ex- 
claimed the  Vicomtesse.  4  My  dear  Derville,  how  could 
you  know  what  I  was  saying  to  Camille  in  a  whisper  ?  ' 

4 1  knew  it  from  your  looks,'  answered  Derville,  seating 
himself  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire. 

Camille's  uncle  went  to  her  side,  and  Mme.  de  Grand- 
lieu  took  up  her  position  on  a  hearth  stool  between  her 
daughter  and  Derville. 

4  The  time  has  come  for  telling  a  story,  which  should 
modify  your  judgment  as  to  Ernest  de  Restaud's  pro- 
spects.' 

4  A  story  ?  '  cried  Camille.  4  Do  begin  at  once,  mon- 
sieur.1 


Gobseck 


309 


The  glance  that  Derville  gave  the  Vicomtesse  told  her 
that  this  tale  was  meant  for  her.  The  Vicomtesse  de 
Grandlieu,  be  it  said,  was  one  of  the  greatest  ladies  in 
the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  by  reason  of  her  fortune 
and  her  ancient  name  ;  and  though  it  may  seem  improb- 
able that  a  Paris  attorney  should  speak  so  familiarly  to 
her,  or  be  so  much  at  home  in  her  house,  the  fact  is 
nevertheless  easily  explained. 

When  Mme.  de  Grandlieu  returned  to  France  with 
the  Royal  family,  she  came  to  Paris,  and  at  first  lived 
entirely  on  the  pension  allowed  her  out  of  the  Civil  List 
by  Louis  xviii. — an  intolerable  position.  The  Hôtel  de 
Grandlieu  had  been  sold  by  the  Republic.  It  came  to 
Derville's  knowledge  that  there  were  flaws  in  the  title, 
and  he  thought  that  it  ought  to  return  to  the  Vicom- 
tesse. He  instituted  proceedings  for  nullity  of  contract, 
and  gained  the  day.  Encouraged  by  this  success,  he 
used  legal  quibbles  to  such  purpose  that  he  compelled 
some  institution  or  other  to  disgorge  the  Forest  of 
Liceney.  Then  he  won  certain  lawsuits  against  the 
Canal  d'Orléans,  and  recovered  a  tolerably  large  amount 
of  property,  with  which  the  Emperor  had  endowed  various 
public  institutions.  So  it  fell  out  that,  thanks  to  the 
young  attorney's  skilful  management,  Mme.  de  Grand- 
lieu's  income  reached  the  sum  of  some  sixty  thousand 
francs,  to  say  nothing  of  the  vast  sums  returned  to  her 
by  the  law  of  indemnity.  And  Derville,  a  man  of  high 
character,  well  informed,  modest,  and  pleasant  in  com- 
pany, became  the  house-friend  of  the  family. 

By  his  conduct  of  Mme.  de  Grandlieu's  affairs  he  had 
fairly  earned  the  esteem  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain, 
and  numbered  the  best  families  among  his  clients  ;  but  he 
did  not  take  advantage  of  his  popularity,  as  an  ambitious 
man  might  have  done.  The  Vicomtesse  would  have 
had  him  sell  his  practice  and  enter  the  magistracy, 
in  which  career  advancement  would  have  been  swift  and 
certain  with  such  influence  at  his  disposal  ;  but  he  per- 


Gobseck 


sistently  refused  all  offers.  He  only  went  into  society 
to  keep  up  his  connections,  but  he  occasionally  spent  an 
evening  at  the  Hôtel  de  Grandlieu.  It  was  a  very 
lucky  thing  for  him  that  his  talents  had  been  brought 
into  the  light  by  his  devotion  to  Mme.  de  Grandlieu, 
for  his  practice  otherwise  might  have  gone  to  pieces. 
Derville  had  not  an  attorney's  soul.  Since  Ernest  de 
Restaud  had  appeared  at  the  Hôtel  de  Grandlieu,  and  he 
had  noticed  that  Camille  felt  attracted  to  the  young 
man,  Derville  had  been  as  assiduous  in  his  visits  as  any 
dandy  of  the  Chaussée-d'Antin  newly  admitted  to  the 
noble  Faubourg.  At  a  ball  only  a  few  days  before, 
when  he  happened  to  stand  near  Camille,  and  said,  indi- 
cating the  Count — 

4  It  is  a  pity  that  yonder  youngster  has  not  two  or 
three  million  francs,  is  it  not  ?  > 

4  Is  it  a  pity  ?  I  do  not  think  so,'  the  girl  answered. 
4  M.  de  Restaud  has  plenty  of  ability  -,  he  is  well  edu- 
cated, and  the  Minister,  his  chief,  thinks  well  of  him. 
He  will  be  a  remarkable  man,  I  have  no  doubt.  <c  Yon- 
der youngster  "  will  have  as  much  money  as  he  wishes 
when  he  comes  into  power.' 

6  Yes,  but  suppose  that  he  were  rich  already  ?  ' 

6  Rich  already  ?  \  repeated  Camille,  flushing  red. 
c  Why,  all  the  girls  in  the  room  would  be  quarrelling 
for  him,'  she  added,  glancing  at  the  quadrilles. 

(  And  then,'  retorted  the  attorney,  c  Mlle,  de  Grand- 
lieu might  not  be  the  one  towards  whom  his  eyes  are 
always  turned  ?  That  is  what  that  red  colour  means  ! 
You  like  him,  do  you  not  ?    Come,  speak  out.' 

Camille  suddenly  rose  to  go. 

c  She  loves  him,'  Derville  thought. 

Since  that  evening,  Camille  had  been  unwontedly 
attentive  to  the  attorney,  who  approved  of  her  liking 
for  Ernest  de  Restaud.  Hitherto,  although  she  knew 
well  that  her  family  lay  under  great  obligations  to 
Derville,  she  had  felt  respect  rather  than  real  friendship 


Gobseck 


3" 


for  him,  their  relation  was  more  a  matter  of  politeness 
than  of  warmth  of  feeling  ;  and  by  her  manner,  and  by 
the  tones  of  her  voice,  she  had  always  made  him  sensible 
of  the  distance  which  socially  lay  between  them.  Grati- 
tude is  a  charge  upon  the  inheritance  which  the  second 
generation  is  apt  to  repudiate, 

4  This  adventure,'  Derville  began  after  a  pause,  c  brings 
the  one  romantic  event  in  my  life  to  my  mind.  You 
are  laughing  already,'  he  went  on  ;  c  it  seems  so  ridi- 
culous, doesn't  it,  that  an  attorney  should  speak  of  a 
romance  in  his  life?  But  once  I  was  five-and-twenty, 
like  everybody  else,  and  even  then  I  had  seen  some  queer 
things.  I  ought  to  begin  at  the  beginning  by  telling 
you  about  some  one  whom  it  is  impossible  that  you 
should  have  known.  The  man  in  question  was  a 
usurer. 

i  Can  you  grasp  a  clear  notion  of  that  sallow,  wan 
face  of  his  ?  I  wish  the  Académie  would  give  me  leave 
to  dub  such  faces  the  lunar  type.  It  was  like  silver- 
gilt,  with  the  gilt  rubbed  off.  His  hair  was  iron-grey, 
sleek,  and  carefully  combed  ;  his  features  might  have 
been  cast  in  bronze;  Talleyrand  himself  was  not  more 
impassive  than  this  money-lender.  A  pair  of  little  eyes, 
yellow  as  a  ferret's,  and  with  scarce  an  eyelash  to  them, 
peered  out  from  under  the  sheltering  peak  of  a  shabby 
old  cap,  as  if  they  feared  the  light.  He  had  the  thin 
lips  that  you  see  in  Rembrandt's  or  Metsu's  portraits  of 
alchemists  and  shrunken  old  men,  and  a  nose  so  sharp  at 
the  tip  that  it  put  you  in  mind  of  a  gimlet.  His  voice 
was  low  ;  he  always  spoke  suavely  ;  he  never  flew  into  a 
passion.  His  age  was  a  problem  ;  it  was  hard  to  say 
whether  he  had  grown  old  before  his  time,  or  whether 
by  economy  of  youth  he  had  saved  enough  to  last  him 
his  life. 

<  This  room,  and  everything  in  it,  from  the  green  baize 
of  his  bureau  to  the  strip  of  carpet  by  the  bed,  was  as 


312 


Gobseck 


clean  and  threadbare  as  the  chilly  sanctuary  of  some 
elderly  spinster  who  spends  her  days  in  rubbing  her 
furniture.  In  winter  time,  the  live  brands  of  the  fire 
smouldered  all  day  in  a  bank  of  ashes  ;  there  was 
never  any  flame  in  his  grate.  He  went  through  his 
day,  from  his  uprising  to  his  evening  coughing-fit,  with 
the  regularity  of  a  pendulum,  and  in  some  sort  was  a 
clockwork  man,  wound  up  by  a  night's  slumber.  Touch 
a  wood-louse  on  an  excursion  across  your  sheet  of  paper, 
and  the  creature  shams  death  -9  and  in  something  the 
same  way  my  acquaintance  would  stop  short  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence,  while  a  cart  went  by,  to  save  the 
strain  to  his  voice.  Following  the  example  of  Fon- 
tenelle,  he  was  thrifty  of  pulse-strokes,  and  concentrated 
all  human  sensibility  in  the  innermost  sanctuary  of  Self. 

His  life  flowed  soundless  as  the  sands  of  an  hour- 
glass. His  victims  sometimes  flew  into  a  rage  and 
made  a  great  deal  of  noise,  followed  by  a  great  silence  ; 
so  is  it  in  a  kitchen  after  a  fowl's  neck  has  been  wrung. 

c  Toward  evening  this  bill  of  exchange  incarnate  would 
assume  ordinarv  human  shape,  and  his  metals  were 
metamorphosed  into  a  human  heart.  When  he  was 
satisfied  with  his  day's  business,  he  would  rub  his  hands  ; 
his  inward  glee  would  escape  like  smoke  through  every 
rift  and  wrinkle  of  his  face  \ — in  no  other  way  is  it 
possible  to  give  an  idea  of  the  mute  play  of  muscle 
which  expressed  sensations  similar  to  the  soundless 
laughter  of  Leather  stocking.  Indeed,  even  in  transports 
of  jov,  his  conversation  was  confined  to  monosyllables  -> 
he  wore  the  same  non-committal  countenance. 

c  This  was  the  neighbour  Chance  found  for  me  in  the 
house  in  the  Rue  des  Grès,  where  I  used  to  live  when 
as  yet  I  was  only  a  second  clerk  finishing  my  third 
year's  studies.  The  house  is  damp  and  dark,  and  boasts 
no  courtvard.  All  the  windows  look  on  the  street  ; 
the  whole  dwelling,  in  claustral  fashion,  is  divided  into 
rooms  or  cells  of  equal  size,  all  opening  upon  a  long 


Gobseck 


313 


corridor  dimly  lit  with  borrowed  lights.  The  place 
must  have  been  part  of  an  old  convent  once.  So  gloomy 
was  it,  that  the  gaiety  of  eldest  sons  forsook  them  on  the 
stairs  before  they  reached  my  neighbour's  door.  He 
and  his  house  were  much  alike  ;  even  so  does  the  oyster 
resemble  his  native  rock. 

c  I  was  the  one  creature  with  whom  he  had  any  com- 
munication, socially  speaking  ;  he  would  come  in  to 
ask  for  a  light,  to  borrow  a  book  or  a  newspaper,  and  of 
an  evening  he  would  allow  me  to  go  into  his  cell,  and 
when  he  was  in  the  humour  we  would  chat  together. 
These  marks  of  confidence  were  the  results  of  four  years 
of  neighbourhood  and  my  own  sober  conduct.  From 
sheer  lack  of  pence,  I  was  bound  to  live  pretty  much  as 
he  did.  Had  he  any  relations  or  friends  ?  Was  he  rich 
or  poor  ?  Nobody  could  give  an  answer  to  these  ques- 
tions. I  myself  never  saw  money  in  his  room.  Doubt- 
less his  capital  was  safely  stowed  in  the  strong  rooms  of 
the  Bank.  He  used  to  collect  his  bills  himself  as  they 
fell  due,  running  all  over  Paris  on  a  pair  of  shanks  as 
skinny  as  a  stag's.  On  occasion  he  could  be  a  martyr 
to  prudence.  One  day,  when  he  happened  to  have  gold 
in  his  pockets,  a  double  napoleon  worked  its  way,  some- 
how or  other,  out  of  his  fob  and  fell,  and  another  lodger 
following  him  up  the  stairs  picked  up  the  coin  and 
returned  it  to  its  owner. 

(  "  That  isn't  mine  !  "  said  he,  with  a  start  of  surprise. 
"  Mine  indeed  !    If  I  were  rich,  should  I  live  as  I  do  !  " 

c  He  made  his  cup  of  coffee  himself  every  morning  on 
the  cast-iron  chafing  dish  which  stood  all  day  in  the 
black  angle  of  the  grate  ;  his  dinner  came  in  from  a 
cookshop  ;  and  our  old  porter's  wife  went  up  at  the 
prescribed  hour  to  set  his  room  in  order.  Finally,  a 
whimsical  chance,  in  which  Sterne  would  have  seen  pre- 
destination, had  named  the  man  Gobseck.  When  I  did 
business  for  him  later,  I  came  to  know  that  he  was  about 
seventy-six  years  old  at  the  time  when  we  became 


3i4 


Gobseck 


acquainted.  He  was  born  about  1740,  in  some  outlying 
suburb  of  Antwerp,  of  a  Dutch  father  and  a  Jewish 
mother,  and  his  name  was  Jean-Esther  Van  Gobseck. 
You  remember  how  all  Paris  took  an  interest  in  that 
murder  case,  a  woman  named  La  belle  Hollandaise  ?  I 
happened  to  mention  it  to  my  old  neighbour,  and  he 
answered  without  the  slightest  symptom  of  interest  or 
surprise,  "  She  is  my  grandniece." 

4  That  was  the  only  remark  drawn  from  him  by  the 
death  of  his  sole  surviving  next  of  kin,  his  sister's  grand- 
daughter. From  reports  of  the  case  I  found  that  La 
belle  Hollandaise  was  in  fact  named  Sara  Van  Gobseck. 
When  I  asked  by  what  curious  chance  his  grandniece 
came  to  bear  his  surname,  he  smiled — 

4 "The  women  never  marry  in  our  family." 

c  Singular  creature,  he  had  never  cared  to  find  out  a 
single  relative  among  four  generations  counted  on  the 
female  side.  The  thought  of  his  heirs  was  abhorrent  to 
him  ;  and  the  idea  that  his  wealth  could  pass  into  other 
hands  after  his  death  simply  inconceivable. 

c  He  was  a  child,  ten  years  old,  when  his  mother 
shipped  him  off  as  cabin  boy  on  a  voyage  to  the  Dutch 
Straits  Settlements,  and  there  he  knocked  about  for 
twenty  years.  The  inscrutable  lines  on  that  sallow 
forehead  kept  the  secret  of  horrible  adventures,  sudden 
panic,  unhoped-for  luck,  romantic  cross  events,  joys  that 
knew  no  limit,  hunger  endured  and  love  trampled  under- 
foot, fortunes  risked,  lost,  and  recovered,  life  endangered 
time  and  time  again,  and  saved,  it  may  be,  by  one  of  the 
rapid,  ruthless  decisions  absolved  by  necessity.  He  had 
known  Admiral  Simeuse,  M.  de  Lally,  M.  de  Ker- 
garouët,  M.  d'Estaing,  le  Bailli  de  Suffren^  M.  de 
Portenduère,  Lord  Cornwallis,  Lord  Hastings,  Tippoo 
Sahib's  father,  Tippoo  Sahib  himself.  The  bully  who 
served  Mahadaji  Sindhia,  King  of  Delhi,  and  did  so 
much  to  found  the  power  of  the  Mahrattas,  had  had 
dealings  with  Gobseck.    Long  residence  at  St.  Thomas 


Gobseck 


brought  him  in  contact  with  Victor  Hughes  and  other 
notorious  pirates.  In  his  quest  of  fortune  he  had  left  no 
stone  unturned  ;  witness  an  attempt  to  discover  the 
treasure  of  that  tribe  of  savages  so  famous  in  Buenos 
Ayres  and  its  neighbourhood.  He  had  a  personal  know- 
ledge of  the  events  of  the  American  War  of  Indepen- 
dence. But  if  he  spoke  of  the  Indies  or  of  America, 
as  he  did  very  rarely  with  me,  and  never  with  any  one 
else,  he  seemed  to  regard  it  as  an  indiscretion  and  to 
repent  of  it  afterwards.  If  humanity  and  sociability  are 
in  some  sort  a  religion,  Gobseck  might  be  ranked  as  an 
infidel  ;  but  though  I  set  myself  to  study  him,  I  must 
confess,  to  my  shame,  that  his  real  nature  was  impene- 
trable up  to  the  very  last.  I  even  felt  doubts  at  times  as 
to  his  sex.  If  all  usurers  are  like  this  one,  I  maintain 
that  they  belong  to  the  neuter  gender. 

c  Did  he  adhere  to  his  mother's  religion  ?  Did  he  look 
on  Gentiles  as  his  legitimate  prey  ?  Had  he  turned 
Roman  Catholic,  Lutheran,  Mahometan,  Brahmin,  or 
what  not  ?  I  never  knew  anything  whatsoever  about 
his  religious  opinions,  and  so  far  as  I  could  see,  he  was 
indifferent  rather  than  incredulous. 

'One  evening  I  went  in  to  see  this  man  who  had 
turned  himself  to  gold  ;  the  usurer,  whom  his  victims 
(his  clients,  as  he  styled  them)  were  wont  to  call  Daddy 
Gobseck,  perhaps  ironically,  perhaps  by  way  of  antiphrasis. 
He  was  sitting  in  his  armchair,  motionless  as  a  statue, 
staring  fixedly  at  the  mantel-shelf,  where  he  seemed  to 
read  the  figures  of  his  statements.  A  lamp,  with  a 
pedestal  that  had  once  been  green,  was  burning  in  the 
room  ;  but  so  far  from  taking  colour  from  its  smoky 
light,  his  face  seemed  to  stand  out  positively  paler 
against  the  background.  He  pointed  to  a  chair  set  for 
me,  but  not  a  word  did  he  say. 

'"What  thoughts  can  this  being  have  in  his  mind  ?  " 
said  I  to  myself.  "  Does  he  know  that  a  God  exists  ; 
does  he  know  there  are  such  things  as  feeling,  woman, 


3i6 


Gobseck 


happiness  ?"  I  pitied  him  as  I  might  have  pitied  a 
diseased  creature.  But,  at  the  same  time,  I  knew  quite 
well  that  while  he  had  millions  of  francs  at  his  command, 
he  possessed  the  world  no  less  in  idea — that  world  which 
he  had  explored,  ransacked,  weighed,  appraised,  and 
exploited. 

f  "  Good  day,  Daddy  Gobseck,"  I  began. 

c  He  turned  his  face  towards  me,  with  a  slight 
contraction  of  his  bushy,  black  eyebrows  ;  this  character- 
istic shade  of  expression  in  him  meant  as  much  as  the 
most  jubilant  smile  on  a  Southern  face. 

cu  You  look  just  as  gloomy  as  you  did  that  day  when 
the  news  came  of  the  failure  of  that  bookseller  whose 
sharpness  you  admired  so  much,  though  you  were  one 
of  his  victims/' 

c"One  of  his  victims?"  he  repeated,  with  a  look  of 
astonishment. 

cu  Yes.  Did  you  not  refuse  to  accept  composition  at 
the  meeting  of  creditors  until  he  undertook  privately  to 
pay  you  your  debt  in  full;  and  did  he  not  give  you 
bills  accepted  by  the  insolvent  firm  ;  and  then,  when  he 
set  up  in  business  again,  did  he  not  pay  you  the  dividend 
upon  those  bills  of  yours,  signed  as  they  were  by  the 
bankrupt  firm  ?  " 

<w  He  was  a  sharp  one,  but  I  had  it  out  of  him." 

c  u  Then  have  you  some  bills  to  protest  ?  To-day  is  the 
30th,  I  believe." 

cIt  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  spoken  to  him  of 
money.  He  looked  ironically  up  at  me  ;  then  in  those 
bland  accents,  not  unlike  the  husky  tones  which  the  tiro 
draws  from  a  flute,  he  answered,  a  I  am  amusing  myself." 

c  "  So  you  amuse  yourself  now  and  again  ?  " 

i  u  Do  you  imagine  that  the  only  poets  in  the  world  are 
those  who  print  their  verses?"  he  asked,  with  a  pitying 
look  and  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

c"  Poetry  in  that  head  !  "  thought  I,  for  as  yet  I  knew 
nothing  of  his  life. 


Gobseck 


3l7 


'"What  life  could  be  as  glorious  as  mine  ?  "  he  con- 
tinued, and  his  eyes  lighted  up.  "  You  are  young,  your 
mental  visions  are  coloured  by  youthful  blood,  you  see 
women's  faces  in  the  fire,  while  I  see  nothing  but  coals 
in  mine.  You  have  all  sorts  of  beliefs,  while  I  have  no 
beliefs  at  all.  Keep  your  illusions — if  you  can.  Now 
I  will  show  you  life  with  the  discount  taken  off.  Go 
wherever  you  like,  or  stay  at  home  by  the  fireside  with 
your  wife,  there  always  comes  a  time  when  you  settle 
down  in  a  certain  groove,  the  groove  of  your  preference  ; 
and  then  happiness  consists  in  the  exercise  of  your 
faculties  by  applying  them  to  realities.  Anything  more 
in  the  way  of  precept  is  false.  My  principles  have  been 
various,  among  various  men  ;  I  had  to  change  them 
with  every  change  of  latitude.  Things  that  we  admire 
in  Europe  are  punishable  in  Asia,  and  a  vice  in  Paris 
becomes  a  necessity  when  you  have  passed  the  Azores. 
There  are  no  such  things  as  hard-and-fast  rules  ;  there 
are  only  conventions  adapted  to  the  climate.  Fling  a 
man  headlong  into  one  social  melting  pot  after  another, 
and  convictions  and  forms  and  moral  systems  become  so 
many  meaningless  words  to  him.  The  one  thing  that 
always  remains,  the  one  sure  instinct  that  nature  has 
implanted  in  us,  is  the  instinct  of  self-preservation.  In 
European  society  you  call  this  instinct  self-interest. 
If  you  had  lived  as  long  as  I  have,  you  would  know 
that  there  is  but  one  concrete  reality  invariable  enough 
to  be  worth  caring  about,  and  that  is — Gold.  Gold 
represents  every  form  of  human  power.  I  have 
travelled.  I  found  out  that  there  were  either  hills  or 
plains  everywhere  :  the  plains  are  monotonous,  the  hills 
a  weariness  ;  consequently,  place  may  be  left  out  of  the 
question.  As  to  manners  ->  man  is  man  all  the  world 
over.  The  same  battle  between  the  poor  and  the  rich 
is  going  on  everywhere  ;  it  is  inevitable  everywhere  ; 
consequently,  it  is  better  to  exploit  than  to  be  exploited. 
Everywhere  you  find  the  man  of  thews  and  sinews  who 


3 1 8  Gobseck 

toils,  and  the  lymphatic  man  who  torments  himself  ;  and 
pleasures  are  everywhere  the  same,  for  when  all  sensations 
are  exhausted,  all  that  survives  is  Vanity — Vanity  is  the 
abiding  substance  of  us,  the  /  in  us.  Vanity  is  only  to 
be  satisfied  by  gold  in  floods.  Our  dreams  need  time 
and  physical  means  and  painstaking  thought  before  they 
can  be  realised.  Well,  gold  contains  all  things  in 
embryo  ;  gold  realises  all  things  for  us. 

1  "  None  but  fools  and  invalids  can  find  pleasure  in 
shuffling  cards  all  evening  long  to  find  out  whether  they 
shall  win  a  rew  pence  at  the  end.  None  but  drivelling 
idiots  could  spend  time  in  inquiring  into  all  that  is 
happening  around  them,  whether  Madame  Such-an-One 
slept  single  on  her  couch  or  in  company,  whether  she 
has  more  blood  than  lymph,  more  temperament  than 
virtue.  None  but  the  dupes,  who  rondly  imagine  that 
they  are  useful  to  their  like,  can  interest  themselves  in 
laying  down  rules  for  political  guidance  amid  events 
which  neither  they  nor  any  one  else  foresees,  nor  ever 
will  foresee.  None  but  simpletons  can  delight  in  talking 
about  stage  players  and  repeating  their  sayings  ;  making 
the  daily  promenade  of  a  caged  animal  over  a  rather 
larger  area  ;  dressing  for  others,  eating  for  others, 
priding  themselves  on  a  horse  or  a  carriage  such  as  no 
neighbour  can  have  until  three  days  later.  What  is  all 
this  but  Parisian  life  summed  up  in  a  few  phrases?  Let 
us  find  a  higher  outlook  on  life  than  theirs.  Happiness 
consists  either  in  strong  emotions  which  drain  our 
vitality,  or  in  methodical  occupation  which  makes  exis- 
tence like  a  bit  of  English  machinery,  working  with  the 
regularity  of  clockwork.  A  higher  happiness  than 
either  consists  in  a  curiosity,  styled  noble,  a  wish  to 
learn  Nature's  secrets,  or  to  attempt  by  artificial  means 
to  imitate  Nature  to  some  extent.  What  is  this  in  two 
words  but  Science  and  Art,  or  passion  or  calm  ? — Ah  ! 
well,  every  human  passion  wrought  up  to  its  highest 
pitch  in  the  struggle  for  existence  comes  to  parade  itself 


Gobseck 


319 


here  before  me — as  I  live  in  calm.  As  for  your  scientific 
curiosity,  a  kind  of  wrestling  bout  in  which  man  is 
never  uppermost,  I  replace  it  by  an  insight  into  all  the 
springs  of  action  in  man  and  woman.  To  sum  up,  the 
world  is  mine  without  effort  of  mine,  and  the  world  has 
not  the  slightest  hold  on  me.  Listen  to  this,"  he  went 
on,  "  I  will  tell  you  the  history  of  my  morning,  and  you 
will  divine  my  pleasures." 

6  He  got  up,  pushed  the  bolt  of  the  door,  drew  a 
tapestry  curtain  across  it  with  a  sharp  grating  sound  of 
the  rings  on  the  rod,  then  he  sat  down  again. 

<<c  This  morning,"  he  said,  "  I  had  only  two  amounts  to 
collect  ;  the  rest  of  the  bills  that  were  due  I  gave  away 
instead  of  cash  to  my  customers  yesterday.  So  much 
saved,  you  see,  for  when  I  discount  a  bill  I  always 
deduct  two  francs  for  a  hired  brougham — expenses  of 
collection.  A  pretty  thing  it  would  be,  would  it  not,  if 
my  clients  were  to  set  me  trudging  all  over  Paris  for 
half-a-dozen  francs  of  discount,  when  no  man  is  my 
master,  and  I  only  pay  seven  francs  in  the  shape  of 
taxes  ? 

4  "  The  first  bill  for  a  thousand  francs  was  presented  by 
a  young  fellow,  a  smart  buck  with  a  spangled  waistcoat, 
and  an  eyeglass,  and  a  tilbury  and  an  English  horse,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it.  The  bill  bore  the  signature  of  one  of 
the  prettiest  women  in  Paris,  married  to  a  Count,  a 
great  landowner.  Now,  how  came  that  Countess  to  put 
her  name  to  a  bill  of  exchange,  legally  not  worth  the 
paper  it  was  written  upon,  but  practically  very  good 
business;  for  these  women,  poor  things,  are  afraid  oi 
the  scandal  that  a  protested  bill  makes  in  a  family,  and 
would  give  themselves  away  in  payment  sooner  than 
fail  ?  I  wanted  to  find  out  what  that  bill  of  exchange 
really  represented.  Was  it  stupidity,  imprudence,  love, 
or  charity  ? 

<uThe  second  bill,  bearing  the  signature  6  Fanny 
Malvaur,'  came  to  me  from  a  linen-draper  on  the  high 


Gobseck 


way  to  bankruptcy.  Now,  no  creature  who  has  any 
credit  with  a  bank  comes  to  me.  The  first  step  to  my 
door  means  that  a  man  is  desperately  hard  up  \  that  the 
news  of  his  failure  will  soon  come  out  ;  and,  most  of  all, 
it  means  that  he  has  been  everywhere  else  first.  The 
stag  is  always  at  bay  when  I  see  him,  and  a  pack  of 
creditors  are  hard  upon  his  track.  The  Countess  lived 
in  the  Rue  du  Helder,  and  my  Fanny  in  the  Rue  Mont- 
martre. How  many  conjectures  I  made  as  I  set  out  this 
morning  !  If  these  two  women  were  not  able  to  pay, 
they  would  show  me  more  respect  than  they  would  show 
their  own  fathers.  What  tricks  and  grimaces  would  not 
the  Countess  try  for  a  thousand  francs  !  She  would  be 
so  nice  to  me,  she  would  talk  to  me  in  that  ingratiating 
tone  peculiar  to  endorsers  of  bills,  she  would  pour  out  a 
torrent  of  coaxing  words,  perhaps  she  would  beg  and 
pray,  and  I  .  .  (here  the  old  man  turned  his  pale  eyes 
upon  me) — "and  I  not  to  be  moved,  inexorable  !  "  he 
continued.  "  I  am  there  as  the  avenger,  the  apparition  of 
Remorse.  So  much  for  hypotheses.  I  reached  the  house. 

4  " 1  Madame  la  Comtesse  is  asleep,'  says  the  maid. 

c  «  <  When  can  I  see  her  ?  ' 

4  " 4  At  twelve  o'clock.' 

4  44 c  Is  Madame  la  Comtesse  ill  ?  ? 

4" c  No,  sir,  but  she  only  came  home  at  three  o'clock 
this  morning  from  a  ball.' 

4  44  4  My  name  is  Gobseck,  tell  her  that  I  shall  call  again 
at  twelve  o'clock,'  and  out  I  went,  leaving  traces  of  my 
muddy  boots  on  the  carpet  which  covered  the  paved 
staircase.  I  like  to  leave  mud  on  a  rich  man's  carpet  j 
it  is  not  petty  spite  ;  I  like  to  make  them  feel  a  touch 
of  the  claws  of  Necessity.  In  the  Rue  Montmartre  I 
thrust  open  the  old  gateway  of  a  poor-looking  house,  and 
looked  into  a  dark  courtyard  where  the  sunlight  never 
shines.  The  porter's  lodge  was  grimy,  the  window 
looked  like  the  sleeve  of  some  shabby  wadded  gown — 
greasy,  dirty,  and  full  of  holes. 


Gobseck 


321 


c  44 c  Mlle.  Fanny  Malvaut  ?  ' 

4UCShe  has  gone  out  ;  but  if  you  have  come  about  a 
bill,  the  money  is  waiting  for  you.' 
*  44 c  I  will  look  in  again,'  said  I. 

4  "  As  soon  as  I  knew  that  the  porter  had  the  money  for 
me,  I  wanted  to  know  what  the  girl  was  like  ;  I  pictured 
her  as  pretty.  The  rest  of  the  morning  I  spent  in  look- 
ing at  the  prints  in  the  shop  windows  along  the  boule- 
vard ;  then,  just  as  it  struck  twelve,  I  went  through  the 
Countess's  ante-chamber. 

* 44  4  Madame  has  just  this  minute  rung  for  me,'  said  the 
maid  ;  4  I  don't  think  she  can  see  you  yet.' 

444  4 1  will  wait,'  said  I,  and  sat  down  in  an  easy-chair. 

4  "  Venetian  shutters  were  opened,  and  presently  the 
maid  came  hurrying  back. 

4  44 4  Come  in,  sir.' 

4  44  From  the  sweet  tone  of  the  girl's  voice,  I  knew  that 
the  mistress  could  not  be  ready  to  pay.  What  a  hand- 
some woman  it  was  that  I  saw  in  another  moment  ! 
She  had  flung  an  Indian  shawl  hastily  over  her  bare 
shoulders,  covering  herself  with  it  completely,  while  it 
revealed  the  bare  outlines  of  the  form  beneath.  She 
wore  a  loose  gown  trimmed  with  snowy  ruffles,  which 
told  plainly  that  her  laundress's  bills  amounted  to  some- 
thing like  two  thousand  francs  in  the  course  of  a  year. 
Her  dark  curls  escaped  from  beneath  a  bright  Indian 
handkerchief,  knotted  carelessly  about  her  head  after 
the  fashion  of  Creole  women.  The  bed  lay  in  disorder 
that  told  of  broken  slumber.  A  painter  would  have  paid 
money  to  stay  a  while  to  see  the  scene  that  I  saw. 
Under  the  luxurious  hanging  draperies,  the  pillow, 
crushed  into  the  depths  of  an  eider-down  quilt,  its 
lace  border  standing  out  in  contrast  against  the  back- 
ground of  blue  silk,  bore  a  vague  impress  that  kindled 
the  imagination.  A  pair  of  satin  slippers  gleamed  from 
the  great  bear-skin  rug  spread  by  the  carved  mahogany 
lions  at  the  bed-foot,  where  she  had  flung  them  off 


3** 


Gobseck 


in  her  weariness  after  the  ball.  A  crumpled  gown 
hung  over  a  chair,  the  sleeves  touching  the  floor; 
stockings  which  a  breath  would  have  blown  away  were 
twisted  about  the  leg  of  an  easy-chair;  white  ribbon 
garters  straggled  over  a  settee.  A  fan  of  price,  half 
unfolded,  glittered  on  the  chimney-piece.  Drawers 
stood  open  ;  flowers,  diamonds,  gloves,  a  bouquet,  a 
girdle,  were  littered  about.  The  room  was  full  of  vague 
sweet  perfume.  And — beneath  all  the  luxury  and  dis- 
order, beauty  and  incongruity,  I  saw  Misery  crouching 
in  wait  for  her  or  for  her  adorer,  Misery  rearing  its  head, 
for  the  Countess  had  begun  to  feel  the  edge  of  those 
fangs.  Her  tired  face  was  an  epitome  of  the  room 
strewn  with  relics  of  past  festival.  The  scattered  gew- 
gaws, pitiable  this  morning,  when  gathered  together  and 
coherent,  had  turned  heads  the  night  before. 

*  "  What  efforts  to  drink  of  the  Tantalus  cup  of  bliss 
I  could  read  in  these  traces  of  love  stricken  by  the  thunder- 
bolt remorse — in  this  visible  presentment  of  a  life  of 
luxury,  extravagance,  and  riot.  There  were  faint  red 
marks  on  her  young  face,  signs  of  the  fineness  of  the 
skin  ;  but  her  features  were  coarsened,  as  it  were,  and  the 
circles  about  her  eyes  were  unwontedly  dark.  Nature 
nevertheless  was  so  vigorous  in  her,  that  these  traces  of 
past  folly  did  not  spoil  her  beauty.  Her  eyes  glittered. 
She  looked  like  some  Herodias  of  da  Vinci's  (I  have  dealt 
in  pictures),  so  magnificently  full  of  life  and  energy  was 
she  ;  there  was  nothing  starved  nor  stinted  in  feature  or 
outline  ;  she  awakened  desire  ;  it  seemed  to  me  that 
there  was  some  passion  in  her  yet  stronger  than  love.  I 
was  taken  with  her.  It  was  a  long  while  since  my  heart 
had  throbbed  ;  so  I  was  paid  then  and  there — for  I  would 
give  a  thousand  francs  for  a  sensation  that  should  bring 
me  back  memories  of  youth. 

*  <c 4  Monsieur,'  she  said,  finding  a  chair  for  me,  i  will 
you  be  so  good  as  to  wait  ?  ' 

' «  i  Until  this  time  to-morrow,  madame,'  I  said,  folding 


Gobseck 


3*3 


up  the  bill  again.  *  I  cannot  legally  protest  this  bill 
any  sooner.'  And  within  myself  I  said — c  Pay  the  price 
of  your  luxury,  pay  for  your  name,  pay  for  your  ease, 
pay  for  the  monopoly  which  you  enjoy  !  The  rich  have 
invented  judges  and  courts  of  law  to  secure  their  goods, 
and  the  guillotine — that  candle  in  which  so  many  an 
ignorant  moth  burns  his  wings.  But  for  you  who  lie  in 
silk,  under  silken  coverlets,  there  is  remorse,  and  grind- 
ing of  teeth  beneath  a  smile,  and  those  fantastical  lions' 
jaws  are  gaping  to  set  their  fangs  in  your  heart.' 

K  "  c  Protest  the  bill  !  Can  you  mean  it  ?  '  she  cried,  with 
her  eyes  upon  me  ;  4  could  you  have  so  little  consideration 
for  me  ? 9 

4  u  hit  the  King  himself  owed  money  to  me,  madame, 
and  did  not  pay  it,  I  should  summons  him  even  sooner 
than  any  other  debtor.' 

4  44  While  we  were  speaking,  somebody  tapped  gently 
at  the  door. 

4  " 4 1  cannot  see  any  one,'  she  cried  imperiously. 

444  4  But,  Anastasie,  I  particularly  wish  to  speak  to  you.' 

4  u  6  Not  just  now,  dear,'  she  answered  in  a  milder  tone, 
but  with  no  sign  of  relenting. 

4  " 4  What  nonsense  !    You  are  talking  to  some  one, 
said  the  voice,  and  in  came  a  man  who  could  only  be 
the  Count. 

4  44  The  Countess  gave  me  a  glance.  I  saw  how  it 
was.  She  was  thoroughly  in  my  power.  There  was  a 
time,  when  I  was  young,  and  might  perhaps  have  been 
stupid  enough  not  to  protest  the  bill.  At  Pondicherry, 
in  1763,  I  let  a  woman  off,  and  nicely  she  paid  me  out 
afterwards.  I  deserved  it  ;  what  call  was  there  for  me  to 
trust  her  ?  ' 

4  44 4  What  does  this  gentleman  want  ?  '  asked  the 
Count. 

4  44  1  could  see  that  the  Countess  was  trembling  from 
head  to  foot  ;  the  white  satin  skin  of  her  throat  was 
rough,  4  turned  to  goose  flesh,'  to  use  the  familiar 


324  Gobseck 

expression.  As  for  me,  I  laughed  in  myself  without 
moving  a  muscle. 

t  «  <  This  gentleman  is  one  of  my  tradesmen,'  she  said. 

c"The  Count  turned  his  back  on  me  ;  I  drew  the  bill 
half  out  of  my  pocket.  After  that  inexorable  movement, 
she  came  over  to  me  and  put  a  diamond  into  my  hands. 
c  Take  it,'  she  said,  c  and  be  gone.' 

tfp  We  exchanged  values,  and  I  made  my  bow  and  went. 
The  diamond  was  quite  worth  twelve  hundred  francs  to 
me.  Out  in  the  courtyard  I  saw  a  swarm  of  flunkeys, 
brushing  their  liveries,  waxing  their  boots,  and  cleaning 
sumptuous  equipages. 

c  «  <  This  is  what  brings  these  people  to  me  ! 1  said  I  to 
myself.  4  It  is  to  keep  up  this  kind  of  thing  that  they 
steal  millions  with  all  due  formalities,  and  betray  their 
country.  The  great  lord,  and  the  little  man  who  apes 
the  great  lord,  bathes  in  mud  once  for  all  to  save  him- 
self a  splash  or  two  when  he  goes  afoot  through  the 
streets.' 

c  "Just  then  the  great  gates  were  opened  to  admit  a 
cabriolet.  It  was  the  same  young  fellow  who  had 
brought  the  bill  to  me. 

6  H c  Sir,'  I  said,  as  he  alighted, c  here  are  two  hundred 
francs,  which  I  beg  you  to  return  to  Mme.  la  Comtesse, 
and  have  the  goodness  to  tell  her  that  I  hold  the  pledge 
which  she  deposited  with  me  this  morning  at  her  dispo- 
sition for  a  week.' 

6  "  He  took  the  two  hundred  francs,  and  an  ironical 
smile  stole  over  his  face  ;  it  was  as  if  he  had  said,  4  Aha  ! 
so  she  has  paid  it,  has  she  ?  .  .  .  Faith,  so  much  the 
better  !  '  I  read  the  Countess's  future  in  his  face.  That 
good-looking,  fair-haired  young  gentleman  is  a  heartless 
gambler  ;  he  will  ruin  himself,  ruin  her,  ruin  her  hus- 
band, ruin  the  children,  eat  up  their  portions,  and  work 
more  havoc  in  Parisian  salons  than  a  whole  battery 
of  howitzers  in  a  regiment. 

<WI  went  back  to  see  Mile.  Fanny  in  the  Rue  Mont- 


Gobseck 


3*5 


martre,  climbed  a  very  steep,  narrow  staircase,  and  reached 
a  two-roomed  dwelling  on  the  fifth  floor.  Everything 
was  as  neat  as  a  new  ducat.  I  did  not  see  a  speck  of 
dust  on  the  furniture  in  the  first  room,  where  Mile. 
Fanny  was  sitting.  Mile.  Fanny  herself  was  a  young 
Parisian  girl,  quietly  dressed,  with  a  delicate  fresh  face, 
and  a  winning  look.  The  arrangement  of  her  neatly 
brushed  chestnut  hair  in  a  double  curve  on  her  forehead 
lent  a  refined  expression  to  blue  eyes,  clear  as  crystal. 
The  broad  daylight  streaming  in  through  the  short  cur- 
tains against  the  window  pane  fell  with  softened  light  on 
her  girlish  face.  A  pile  of  shaped  pieces  of  linen  told  me 
that  she  was  a  sempstress.  She  looked  like  the  spirit  of 
solitude.  When  I  held  out  the  bill,  I  remarked  that  she 
had  not  been  at  home  when  I  called  in  the  morning. 

<<<cBut  the  money  was  left  with  the  porter's  wife,' 
said  she. 

i  Ct  I  pretended  not  to  understand. 

c  u  c  You  go  out  early,  mademoiselle,  it  seems.' 

*  "  *  I  very  seldom  leave  my  room  j  but  when  you  work 
all  night,  you  are  obliged  to  take  a  bath  sometimes.' 

1  "  I  looked  at  her.  A  glance  told  me  all  about  her 
life.  Here  was  a  girl  condemned  by  misfortune  to  toil, 
a  girl  who  came  of  honest  farmer  folk,  for  she  had  still  a 
freckle  or  two  that  told  of  country  birth.  There  was  an 
indefinable  atmosphere  of  goodness  about  her  ;  I  felt  as  if 
I  were  breathing  sincerity  and  frank  innocence.  It  was 
refreshing  to  my  lungs.  Poor  innocent  child,  she  had 
faith  in  something  ;  there  was  a  crucifix  and  a  sprig  or 
two  of  green  box  above  her  poor  little  painted  wooden 
bedstead  ;  I  felt  touched,  or  somewhat  inclined  that  way. 
I  felt  ready  to  offer  to  charge  no  more  than  twelve  per 
cent.,  and  so  give  something  towards  establishing  her  in 
a  good  way  of  business. 

4  " c  But  may  be  she  has  a  little  youngster  of  a  cousin,' 
I  said  to  myself,  c  who  would  raise  money  on  her  signa- 
ture and  spunge  on  the  poor  girl.' 


Gobseck 


4  "  So  I  went  away,  keeping  my  generous  impulses  well 
under  control  ;  for  I  have  frequently  had  occasion  to 
observe  that  when  benevolence  does  no  harm  to  him 
who  gives,  it  is  the  ruin  of  him  who  takes.  When  you 
came  in  I  was  thinking  that  Fanny  Malvaut  would 
make  a  nice  little  wife  ->  I  was  thinking  of  the  contrast 
between  her  pure,  lonely  life  and  the  life  of  the  Countess 
— she  has  sunk  as  low  as  a  bill  of  exchange  already,  she 
will  sink  to  the  lowest  depths  of  degradation  before  she 
has  done  !  " — I  scrutinised  him  during  the  deep  sil- 
ence that  followed,  but  in  a  moment  he  spoke  again. 
"  Well,"  he  said,  "  do  you  think  that  it  is  nothing  to 
have  this  power  of  insight  into  the  deepest  recesses  of 
the  human  heart,  to  embrace  so  many  lives,  to  see  the 
naked  truth  underlying  it  all  ?  There  are  no  two 
dramas  alike  :  there  are  hideous  sores,  deadly  chagrins, 
love  scenes,  misery  that  soon  will  lie  under  the  ripples  of 
the  Seine,  young  men's  joys  that  lead  to  the  scaffold, 
the  laughter  of  despair,  and  sumptuous  banquets.  Yes- 
terday it  was  a  tragedy.  A  worthy  soul  of  a  father 
drowned  himself  because  he  could  not  support  his  family. 
To-morrow  is  a  comedy  ;  some  youngster  will  try  to 
rehearse  the  scene  of  M.  Dimanche,  brought  up  to 
date.  You  have  heard  people  extol  the  eloquence  of 
our  latter  day  preachers  ;  now  and  again  I  have  wasted 
my  time  by  going  to  hear  them  ;  they  produced  a 
change  in  my  opinions,  but  in  my  conduct  (as  somebody 
said,  I  can't  recollect  his  name),  in  my  conduct — never  ! 
— Well,  well  ;  these  good  priests  and  your  Mirabeaus 
and  Vergniauds  and  the  rest  of  them,  are  mere  stam- 
mering beginners  compared  with  these  orators  of  mine. 

i  "  Often  it  is  some  girl  in  love,  some  grey-headed  mer- 
chant on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy,  some  mother  with  a 
son's  wrongdoing  to  conceal,  some  starving  artist,  some 
great  man  whose  influence  is  on  the  wane,  and,  for  lack 
of  money,  is  like  to  lose  the  fruit  of  all  his  labours — the 
power  of  their  pleading  has  made  me  shudder.  Sublime 


Gobseck 


3*7 


actors  such  as  these  play  for  me,  for  an  audience  of  one, 
and  they  cannot  deceive  me.  I  can  look  into  their  in- 
most thoughts,  and  read  them  as  God  reads  them. 
Nothing  is  hidden  from  me.  Nothing  is  refused  to  the 
holder  of  the  purse-strings  to  loose  and  to  bind.  I  am 
rich  enough  to  buy  the  consciences  of  those  who  control 
the  action  of  ministers,  from  their  office  boys  to  their 
mistresses.  Is  not  that  Power  ? — I  can  possess  the  fairest 
women,  receive  their  softest  caresses  ;  is  not  that  Plea- 
sure ?  And  is  not  your  whole  social  economy  summed 
up  in  terms  of  Power  and  Pleasure  ? 

4  a  There  are  ten  of  us  in  Paris,  silent,  unknown  kings, 
the  arbiters  of  your  destinies.  What  is  life  but  a  machine 
set  in  motion  by  money  ?  Know  this  for  certain — 
methods  are  always  confounded  with  results  ;  you  will 
never  succeed  in  separating  the  soul  from  the  senses, 
spirit  from  matter.  Gold  is  the  spiritual  basis  of  existing 
society. — The  ten  of  us  are  bound  by  the  ties  of  common 
interest  ;  we  meet  on  certain  days  of  the  week  at  the 
Café  Themis  near  the  Pont  Neuf,  and  there,  in  conclave, 
we  reveal  the  mysteries  of  finance.  No  fortune  can 
deceive  us  ;  we  are  in  possession  of  family  secrets  in  all 
directions.  We  keep  a  kind  of  Black  Book,  in  which  we 
note  the  most  important  bills  issued,  drafts  on  public 
credit,  or  on  banks,  or  given  and  taken  in  the  course  of 
business.  We  are  the  Casuists  of  the  Paris  Bourse,  a 
kind  of  Inquisition  weighing  and  analysing  the  most 
insignificant  actions  of  every  man  of  any  fortune,  and 
our  forecasts  are  infallible.  One  of  us  looks  out 
over  the  judicial  world,  one  over  the  financial,  another 
surveys  the  administrative,  and  yet  another  the  business 
world.  I  myself  keep  an  eye  on  eldest  sons,  artists, 
people  in  the  great  world,  and  gamblers — on  the  most 
sensational  side  of  Paris.  Every  one  who  comes  to  us 
lets  us  into  his  neighbour's  secrets.  Thwarted  passion 
and  mortified  vanity  are  great  babblers.  Vice  and 
disappointment  and  vindictiveness  are  the  best  of  all 


328 


Gobseck 


detectives.  My  colleagues,  like  myself,  have  enjoyed 
all  things,  are  sated  with  all  things,  and  have  reached 
the  point  when  power  and  money  are  loved  for  their  own 
sake. 

4  "  Here/'  he  said,  indicating  his  bare,  chilly  room, 
"here  the  most  high-mettled  gallant,  who  chafes  at  a 
word  and  draws  sword  for  a  syllable  elsewhere,  will 
entreat  with  clasped  hands.  There  is  no  city-merchant 
so  proud,  no  woman  so  vain  of  her  beauty,  no  soldier  of 
so  bold  a  spirit,  but  that  they  entreat  me  here,  one  and 
all,  with  tears  of  rage  or  anguish  in  their  eyes.  Here 
they  kneel — the  famous  artist,  and  the  man  of  letters, 
whose  name  will  go  down  to  posterity.  Here,  in  short  " 
(he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  forehead),  "  all  the  inheritances 
and  all  the  concerns  of  all  Paris  are  weighed  in  the 
balance.  Are  you  still  of  the  opinion  that  there  are  no 
delights  behind  the  blank  mask  which  so  often  has 
amazed  you  by  its  impassiveness  ?  "  he  asked,  stretching 
out  that  livid  face  which  reeked  of  money. 

CI  went  back  to  my  room,  feeling  stupefied.  The 
little,  wizened,  old  man  had  grown  great.  He  had  been 
metamorphosed  under  my  eyes  into  a  strange  visionary 
symbol;  he  had  come  to  be  the  power  of  gold  personified. 
I  shrank,  shuddering,  from  life  and  my  kind. 

c  u  Is  it  really  so  ?  "  I  thought  ;  "  must  everything  be 
resolved  into  gold  ?  P 

c  I  remember  that  it  was  long  before  I  slept  that 
night.  I  saw  heaps  of  gold  all  about  me.  My  thoughts 
were  full  of  the  lovely  Countess;  I  confess,  to  my  shame, 
that  the  vision  completely  eclipsed  another  quiet,  innocent 
figure,  the  figure  of  the  woman  who  had  entered  upon  a 
life  of  toil  and  obscurity  ;  but  on  the  morrow,  through 
the  clouds  of  slumber,  Fanny's  sweet  face  rose  before  me 
in  all  its  beauty,  and  I  thought  of  nothing  else.' 

6  Will  you  take  a  glass  of  eau  sucrée  ?  9  asked  the 
Vicomtesse,  interrupting  Derville. 


Gobseck 


3*9 


4  I  should  be  glad  of  it.' 

4  But  I  can  see  nothing  in  this  that  can  touch  our 
concerns,'  said  Mme.  de  Grandlieu,  as  she  rang  the  bell. 

4  Sardanapalus  ! '  cried  Derville,  flinging  out  his 
favourite  invocation,  4  Mademoiselle  Camille  will  be 
wide  awake  in  a  moment  if  I  say  that  her  happiness 
depended  not  so  long  ago  upon  Daddy  Gobseck  ;  but  as 
the  old  gentleman  died  at  the  age  of  ninety,  M.  de 
Restaud  will  soon  be  in  possession  of  a  handsome  for- 
tune. This  requires  some  explanation.  As  for  Fanny 
Malvaut,  you  know  her  ;  she  is  my  wife/ 

c  Poor  fellow,  he  would  admit  that,  with  his  usual 
frankness,  with  a  score  of  people  to  hear  him  !  '  said  the 
Vicomtesse. 

4 1  would  proclaim  it  to  the  universe/  said  the  attorney. 

c  Go  on,  drink  your  glass,  my  poor  Derville.  You 
will  never  be  anything  but  the  happiest  and  the  best  of 
men.' 

4  I  left  you  in  the  Rue  du  H  elder,'  remarked  the  uncle, 
raising  his  face  after  a  gentle  doze.  4  You  had  gone  to 
see  a  Countess  ;  what  have  you  done  with  her  ?  ' 

4  A  few  days  after  my  conversation  with  the  old 
Dutchman,'  Derville  continued,  4 1  sent  in  my  thesis, 
and  became  first  a  licentiate  in  law,  and  afterwards  an 
advocate.  The  old  miser's  opinion  of  me  went  up  con- 
siderably. He  consulted  me  (gratuitously)  on  all  the 
ticklish  bits  of  business  which  he  undertook  when  he  had 
made  quite  sure  how  he  stood,  business  which  would 
have  seemed  unsafe  to  any  ordinary  practitioner.  This 
man,  over  whom  no  one  appeared  to  have  the  slightest 
influence,  listened  to  my  advice  with  something  like 
respect.  It  is  true  that  he  always  found  that  it  turned 
out  very  well. 

4  At  length  I  became  head-clerk  in  the  office  where  I 
had  worked  for  three  years,  and  then  I  left  the  Rue  des 
Grès  for  rooms  in  my  employer's  house.    I  had  my 


33° 


Gobseck 


board  and  lodging  and  a  hundred  and  fifty  francs  per 
month.    It  was  a  great  day  for  me  ! 

c  When  I  went  to  bid  the  usurer  good-bye,  he  showed 
no  sign  of  feeling,  he  was  neither  cordial  nor  sorry  to 
lose  me,  he  did  not  ask  me  to  come  to  see  him,  and  only 
gave  me  one  of  those  glances  which  seemed  in  some  sort 
to  reveal  a  power  of  second  sight. 

c  By  the  end  of  a  week  my  old  neighbour  came  to  see 
me  with  a  tolerably  thorny  bit  of  business,  an  expropria- 
tion, and  he  continued  to  ask  my  advice  with  as  much 
freedom  as  if  he  paid  for  it. 

c  My  principal  was  a  man  of  pleasure  and  expensive 
tastes;  before  the  second  year  (1818-1819)  was  out  he 
had  got  himself  into  difficulties,  and  was  obliged  to  sell 
his  practice.  A  professional  connection  in  those  days 
did  not  fetch  the  present  exorbitant  prices,  and  my 
principal  asked  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs. 
Now  an  active  man,  of  competent  knowledge  and  in- 
telligence, might  hope  to  pay  off  the  capital  in  ten  years, 
paying  interest  and  living  respectably  in  the  meantime — 
if  he  could  command  confidence.  But  I  was  the  seventh 
child  of  a  small  tradesman  at  Noyon,  I  had  not  a  sou 
to  my  name,  nor  personal  knowledge  of  any  capitalist 
but  Daddy  Gobseck.  An  ambitious  idea,  and  an  inde- 
finable glimmer  of  hope,  put  heart  into  me.  To  Gobseck 
I  betook  myself,  and  slowly  one  evening  I  made  my  way 
to  the  Rue  des  Grès.  My  heart  thumped  heavily  as  I 
knocked  at  his  door  in  the  gloomy  house.  I  recollected 
all  the  things  that  he  used  to  tell  me,  at  a  time  when  I 
myself  was  very  far  from  suspecting  the  violence  of  the 
anguish  awaiting  those  who  crossed  his  threshold.  Now  it 
was  I  who  was  about  to  beg  and  pray  like  so  many  others. 

c  "  Well,  no,  not  that"  I  said  to  myself  ;  "  an  honest 
man  must  keep  his  self-respect  wherever  he  goes.  Success 
is  not  worth  cringing  for  ;  let  us  show  him  a  front  as 
decided  as  his  own." 

*  Daddy  Gobseck  had  taken  my  room  since  I  left  the 


Gobseck 


331 


house,  so  as  to  have  no  neighbour  ;  he  had  made  a  little 
grated  window  too  in  his  door  since  then,  and  did  not 
open  until  he  had  taken  a  look  at  me  and  saw  who  I  was. 

c  "  Well,"  said  he,  in  his  thin,  flute  notes,  "  so  your 
principal  is  selling  his  practice." 

c  "  How  did  you  know  that  ?  "  said  I  ;  "  he  has  not 
spoken  of  it  as  yet  except  to  me." 

4  The  old  man's  lips  were  drawn  in  puckers,  like  a 
curtain,  to  either  corner  of  his  mouth,  as  a  soundless 
smile  bore  a  hard  glance  company. 

c  "  Nothing  else  would  have  brought  you  here,"  he 
said  drily,  after  a  pause,  which  I  spent  in  confusion. 

c  w  Listen  to  me,  M.  Gobseck,"  I  began,  with  such 
serenity  as  I  could  assume  before  the  old  man,  who 
gazed  at  me  with  steady  eyes.  There  was  a  clear  light 
burning  in  them  that  disconcerted  me. 

*  He  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  bid  me  c<  Go  on."  "  I 
know  that  it  is  not  easy  to  work  on  your  feelings,  so  I 
will  not  waste  my  eloquence  on  the  attempt  to  put  my 
position  before  you — I  am  a  penniless  clerk,  with  no 
one  to  look  to  but  you,  and  no  heart  in  the  world  but 
yours  can  form  a  clear  idea  of  my  probable  future.  Let 
us  leave  hearts  out  of  the  question.  Business  is  business, 
and  business  is  not  carried  on  with  sentimentality  like 
romances.  Now  to  the  facts.  My  principal's  practice 
is  worth  in  his  hands  about  twenty  thousand  francs  per 
annum  ;  in  my  hands,  I  think  it  would  bring  in  forty 
thousand.  He  is  willing  to  sell  it  for  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs.  And  here"  I  said,  striking  my  forehead, 
"  I  feel  that  if  you  would  lend  me  the  purchase-money,  I 
could  clear  it  off  in  ten  years'  time." 

c  "  Come,  that  is  plain  speaking,"  said  Daddy  Gobseck, 
and  he  held  out  his  hand  and  grasped  mine.  "  Nobody 
since  I  have  been  in  business  has  stated  the  motives  of 
his  visit  more  clearly.  Guarantees  ?  "  asked  he,  scanning 
me  from  head  to  foot.  ff  None  to  give,"  he  added  after 
a  pause.    "  How  old  are  you  ?  " 


33* 


Gobseck 


4  "  Twenty-five  in  ten  days'  time,"  said  I,  "or  I  could 
not  open  the  matter." 
«  "  Precisely." 
<"  Well?" 
1  "  It  is  possible." 

*  "  My  word,  we  must  be  quick  about  it,  or  I  shall 
have  some  one  buying  over  my  head." 

*  "  Bring  your  certificate  of  birth  round  to-morrow 
morning,  and  we  will  talk.    I  will  think  it  over." 

c  Next  morning,  at  eight  o'clock,  I  stood  in  the  old 
man's  room.  He  took  the  document,  put  on  his 
spectacles,  coughed,  spat,  wrapped  himself  up  in  his 
black  greatcoat,  and  read  the  whole  certificate  through 
from  beginning  to  end.  Then  he  turned  it  over  and 
over,  looked  at  me,  coughed  again,  fidgeted  about  in  his 
chair,  and  said,  "  We  will  try  to  arrange  this  bit  of 
business." 

* 1  trembled. 

c  "  I  make  fifty  per  cent,  on  my  capital,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  sometimes  I  make  a  hundred,  two  hundred, 
five  hundred  per  cent." 

c  I  turned  pale  at  the  words. 

c  "  But  as  we  are  acquaintances,  I  shall  be  satisfied  to 
take  twelve  and  a  half  per  cent,  per" — (he  hesitated) — 
"  well,  yes,  from  you  I  would  be  content  to  take  thirteen 
per  cent,  per  annum.    Will  that  suit  you  ?  " 

4 "Yes,"  I  answered. 

*  "  But  if  it  is  too  much,  stick  up  for  yourself,  Grotius  !  " 
(a  name  he  jokingly  gave  me).  "When  I  ask  you  for 
thirteen  per  cent.,  it  is  all  in  the  way  of  business  ;  look 
into  it,  see  if  you  can  pay  it  ;  I  don't  like  a  man  to 
agree  too  easily.    Is  it  too  much  ?  " 

c  "  No,"  said  I,  "  I  will  make  up  for  it  by  working  a 
little  harder." 

c  "  Gad  !  your  clients  will  pay  for  it  !  "  said  he,  looking 
at  me  wickedly  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes. 

c  "  No,  by  all  the  devils  in  hell  !  "  cried  I,  "  it  shall  be  1 


Gobseck 


333 


who  will  pay.  I  would  sooner  cut  my  hand  off  than 
flay  people." 

*  "  Good  night,"  said  Daddy  Gobseck. 

<  «  Why,  fees  are  all  according  to  scale,"  I  added. 

cu  Not  for  compromises  and  settlements  out  of  Court, 
and  cases  where  litigants  come  to  terms,"  said  he.  "  You 
can  send  in  a  bill  for  thousands  of  francs,  six  thousand 
even  at  a  swoop  (it  depends  on  the  importance  of  the  case), 
for  conferences  with  So-and-so,  and  expenses,  and  drafts,  and 
memorials,  and  your  jargon.  A  man  must  learn  to  look 
out  for  business  of  this  kind.  I  will  recommend  you  as 
a  most  competent,  clever  attorney.  I  will  send  you 
such  a  lot  of  work  of  this  sort  that  your  colleagues  will 
be  fit  to  burst  with  envy.  Werbrust,  Palma,  and 
Gigonnet,  my  cronies,  shall  hand  over  their  expropria- 
tions to  you  ;  they  have  plenty  of  them,  the  Lord 
knows  !  So  you  will  have  two  practices — the  one  you 
are  buying,  and  the  other  I  will  build  up  for  you.  You 
ought  almost  to  pay  me  fifteen  per  cent,  on  my  loan." 

4  u  So  be  it,  but  no  more,"  said  I,  with  the  firmness 
which  means  that  a  man  is  determined  not  to  concede 
another  point. 

c  Daddy  Gobseck's  face  relaxed  ;  he  looked  pleased 
with  me. 

'"I  shall  pay  the  money  over  to  your  principal  myself," 
said  he,  "  so  as  to  establish  a  lien  on  the  purchase  and 
caution-money." 

4  "  Oh,  anything  you  like  in  the  way  of  guarantees." 

4 "And  besides  that,  you  will  give  me  bills  for  the 
amount  made  payable  to  a  thjjd  party  (name  left  blank), 
fifteen  bills  of  ten  thousand  francs  each." 

4  "  Well,  so  long  as  it  is  acknowledged  in  writing  that 
this  is  a  double — —  " 

4  "  No  !  "  Gobseck  broke  in  upon  me.  "  No  !  Why 
should  I  trust  you  any  more  than  you  trust  me  ?  " 

4 1  kept  silence. 

4  44  And  furthermore,"  he  continued,  with  a  sort  of  good- 


334 


Gobseck 


humour,  "you  will  give  me  your  advice  without 
charging  fees  as  long  as  I  live,  will  you  not  ? 99 

4  u  So  be  it  ;  so  long  as  there  is  no  outlay." 

4  "  Precisely,"  said  he.  "  Ah,  by  the  by,  you  will  allow 
me  to  go  to  see  you  ?  "  (Plainly  the  old  man  found  it  not 
so  easy  to  assume  the  air  of  good-humour.) 

c  "  I  shall  always  be  glad." 

c  "  Ah  !  yes,  but  it  would  be  very  difficult  to  arrange  of 
a  morning.  You  will  have  your  affairs  to  attend  to,  and 
I  have  mine." 

'"Then  come  in  the  evening." 

*  "  Oh,  no  !  "  he  answered  briskly,  "  you  ought  to  go 
into  society  and  see  your  clients,  and  I  myself  have  my 
friends  at  my  café." 

<"  His  friends  !  "  thought  I  to  myself. — "Very  well," 
said  I,  "  why  not  come  at  dinner-time  ?  " 

c"That  is  the  time,"  said  Gobseck,  "after  'Change, 
at  five  o'clock.  Good,  you  will  see  me  Wednesdays 
and  Saturdays.  We  will  talk  over  business  like  a  pair 
of  friends.  Aha  !  I  am  gay  sometimes.  Just  give  me 
the  wing  of  a  partridge  and  a  glass  of  champagne,  and 
we  will  have  our  chat  together.  I  know  a  great  many 
things  that  can  be  told  now  at  this  distance  of  time  ;  I 
will  teach  you  to  know  men,  and  what  is  more — 
women  !  \* 

c"  Oh  !  a  partridge  and  a  glass  of  champagne  if  you  like." 

c  "  Don't  do  anything  foolish,  or  I  shall  lose  my  faith 
in  you.  And  don't  set  up  housekeeping  in  a  grand 
way.  Just  one  old  general  servant.  I  will  come  and 
see  that  you  keep  your  health.  I  have  capital  invested 
in  your  head,  he  !  he  !  so  I  am  bound  to  look  after  you. 
There,  come  round  in  the  evening  and  bring  your 
principal  with  you  !  " 

c  "  Would  you  mind  telling  me,  if  there  is  no  harm  in 
asking,  what  was  the  good  of  my  birth  certificate  in  this 
business  ?  "  I  asked,  when  the  little  old  man  and  I  stood 
on  the  doorstep. 


Gobseck 


335 


c  Jean-Esther  Van  Gobseck  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
smiled  maliciously,  and  said,  "What  blockheads  young- 
sters are  !  Learn,  master  attorney  (for  learn  you  must, 
if  you  don't  mean  to  be  taken  in),  that  integrity  and 
brains  in  a  man  under  thirty  are  commodities  which  can 
be  mortgaged.  After  that  age  there  is  no  counting 
on  a  man." 

4  And  with  that  he  shut  the  door. 

4  Three  months  later  I  was  an  attorney.  Before  very 
long,  madame,  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  undertake  the 
suit  for  the  recovery  of  your  estates.  I  won  the  day, 
and  my  name  became  known.  In  spite  of  the  exorbitant 
rate  of  interest,  I  paid  off  Gobseck  in  less  than  five 
years.  I  married  Fanny  Malvaut,  whom  I  loved  with 
all  my  heart.  There  was  a  parallel  between  her  life  and 
mine,  between  our  hard  work  and  our  luck,  which 
increased  the  strength  of  feeling  on  either  side.  One 
of  her  uncles,  a  well-to-do  farmer,  died  and  left  her 
seventy  thousand  francs,  which  helped  to  clear  off  the 
loan.  From  that  day  my  life  has  been  nothing  but 
happiness  and  prosperity.  Nothing  is  more  utterly 
uninteresting  than  a  happy  man,  so  let  us  say  no  more 
on  that  head,  and  return  to  the  rest  of  the  characters. 

*  About  a  year  after  the  purchase  of  the  practice,  I  was 
dragged  into  a  bachelor  breakfast-party  given  by  one  of 
our  number  who  had  lost  a  bet  to  a  young  man  greatly 
in  vogue  in  the  fashionable  world.  M.  de  Trailles,  the 
flower  of  the  dandyism  of  that  day,  enjoyed  a  prodigious 
reputation.' 

'But  he  is  still  enjoying  it,'  put  in  the  Comte  de 
Born.  c  No  one  wears  his  clothes  with  a  finer  air,  nor 
drives  a  tandem  with  a  better  grace.  It  is  Maxime's 
gift  ;  he  can  gamble,  eat,  and  drink  more  gracefully 
than  any  man  in  the  world.  He  is  a  judge  of  horses, 
hats,  and  pictures.  All  the  women  lose  their  heads  over 
him.     He  always  spends  something   like  a  hundred 


336 


Gobseck 


thousand  francs  a  year,  and  no  creature  can  discover  that 
he  has  an  acre  of  land  or  a  single  dividend  warrant. 
The  typical  knight  errant  of  our  salons,  our  boudoirs, 
our  boulevards,  an  amphibian  halfway  between  a  man 
and  a  woman — Maxime  de  Trailles  is  a  singular  being, 
fit  for  anything,  and  good  for  nothing,  quite  as  capable 
of  perpetrating  a  benefit  as  of  planning  a  crime  $  some- 
times base,  sometimes  noble,  more  often  bespattered 
with  mire  than  besprinkled  with  blood,  knowing  more 
of  anxiety  than  of  remorse,  more  concerned  with  his 
digestion  than  with  any  mental  process,  shamming  passion, 
feeling  nothing.  Maxime  de  Trailles  is  a  brilliant  link 
between  the  hulks  and  the  best  society  ;  he  belongs  to 
the  eminently  intelligent  class  from  which  a  Mirabeau, 
or  a  Pitt,  or  a  Richelieu  springs  at  times,  though  it  is 
more  wont  to  produce  Counts  of  Horn,  Fouquier- 
Tin villes,  and  Coignards.' 

'Well,'  pursued  Derville,  when  he  had  heard  the 
Vicomtesse's  brother  to  the  end, 4 1  had  heard  a  good 
deal  about  this  individual  from  poor  old  Goriot,  a  client 
of  mine  ;  and  I  had  already  been  at  some  pains  to  avoid 
the  dangerous  honour  of  his  acquaintance,  for  I  came 
across  him  sometimes  in  society.  Still,  my  chum  was 
so  pressing  about  this  breakfast-party  of  his,  that  I  could 
not  well  get  out  of  it,  unless  I  wished  to  earn  a  name 
for  squeamishness.  Madame,  you  could  hardly  imagine 
what  a  bachelor's  breakfast-party  is  like.  It  means 
superb  display  and  a  studied  refinement  seldom  seen  ;  the 
luxury  of  a  miser  when  vanity  leads  him  to  be  sumptuous 
for  a  day. 

'You  are  surprised  as  you  enter  the  room  at  the 
neatness  of  the  table,  dazzling  by  reason  of  its  silver  and 
crystal  and  linen  damask.  Life  is  here  in  full  bloom  ; 
the  young  fellows  are  graceful  to  behold  \  they  smile  and 
talk  in  low,  demure  voices  like  so  many  brides  ;  every- 
thing about  them  looks  girlish.  Two  hours  later  you 
might  take  the  room  for  a  battlefield  after  the  fight. 


Gobseck 


337 


Broken  glasses,  serviettes  crumpled  and  torn  to  rags  lie 
strewn  about  among  the  nauseous-looking  remnants  of 
food  on  the  dishes.  There  is  an  uproar  that  stuns  you, 
jesting  toasts,  a  fire  of  witticisms  and  bad  jokes  -9  faces 
are  empurpled,  eyes  inflamed  and  expressionless  ;  unin- 
tentional confidences  tell  you  the  whole  truth.  Bottles 
are  smashed,  and  songs  trolled  out  in  the  height  of  a 
diabolical  racket;  men  call  each  other  out,  hang  on 
each  other's  necks,  or  fall  to  fisticuffs  ;  the  room  is  full 
of  a  horrid,  close  scent  made  up  of  a  hundred  odours,  and 
noise  enough  for  a  hundred  voices.  No  one  has  any 
notion  of  what  he  is  eating  or  drinking  or  saying.  Some 
are  depressed,  others  babble  ;  one  will  turn  monomaniac, 
repeating  the  same  word  over  and  over  again  like  a  bell 
set  jangling  ;  another  tries  to  keep  the  tumult  within 
bounds  ;  the  steadiest  will  propose  an  orgie.  If  any 
one  in  possession  of  his  faculties  should  come  in,  he 
would  think  that  he  had  interrupted  a  Bacchanalian  rite. 

cIt  was  in  the  thick  of  such  a  chaos  that  M.  de 
Trailles  tried  to  insinuate  himself  into  my  good  graces. 
My  head  was  fairly  clear,  I  was  upon  my  guard.  As  for 
him,  though  he  pretended  to  be  decently  drunk,  he  was 
perfectly  cool,  and  knew  very  well  what  he  was  about. 
How  it  was  done  I  do  not  know,  but  the  upshot  of  it 
was  that  when  we  left  Grignon's  rooms  about  nine 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  M.  de  Trailles  had  thoroughly 
bewitched  me.  I  had  given  him  my  promise  that  I 
would  introduce  him  the  next  day  to  our  Papa  Gobseck. 
The  words  "honour,"  "virtue,"  "countess,"  "honest 
woman,"  and  "  ill-luck  "  were  mingled  in  his  discourse 
with  magical  potency,  thanks  to  that  golden  tongue  of  his. 

c  When  I  awoke  next  morning,  and  tried  to  recollect 
what  I  had  done  the  day  before,  it  was  with  great  diffi- 
culty that  I  could  make  a  connected  tale  from  my 
impressions.  At  last,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  daughter 
of  one  of  my  clients  was  in  danger  of  losing  her  reputa- 
tion, together  with  her  husband's  love  and  esteem,  if  she 


338 


Gobseck 


could  not  get  fifty  thousand  francs  together  m  the  course 
of  the  morning.  There  had  been  gaming  debts,  and 
carriage-builders'  accounts,  money  lost  to  Heaven  knows 
whom.  My  magician  of  a  boon  companion  had  im- 
pressed it  upon  me  that  she  was  rich  enough  to  make 
good  these  reverses  by  a  few  years  of  economy.  But 
only  now  did  I  begin  to  guess  the  reasons  of  his 
urgency.  I  confess,  to  my  shame,  that  I  had  not  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  but  that  it  was  a  matter  of  import- 
ance that  Daddy  Gobseck  should  make  it  up  with 
this  dandy.  I  was  dressing  when  the  young  gentleman 
appeared. 

4  44  M.  le  Comte,"  said  I,  after  the  usual  greetings, 
44 1  fail  to  see  why  you  should  need  me  to  effect  an 
introduction  to  Van  Gobseck,  the  most  civil  and  smooth- 
spoken of  capitalists.  Money  will  be  forthcoming  if  he  has 
any,  or  rather,  if  you  can  give  him  adequate  security." 

c" Monsieur,"  said  he,  "it  does  not  enter  into  my 
thoughts  to  force  you  to  do  me  a  service,  even  though 
you  have  passed  your  word." 

4  44  Sardanapalus  !  "  said  I  to  myself,  "am  I  going  to 
let  that  fellow  imagine  that  I  will  not  keep  my  word 
with  him  ?  " 

4  44  I  had  the  honour  of  telling  you  yesterday,"  said  he, 
44  that  I  had  fallen  out  with  Daddy  Gobseck  most 
inopportunely  ;  and  as  there  is  scarcely  another  man  in 
Paris  who  can  come  down  on  the  nail  with  a  hundred 
thousand  francs,  at  the  end  of  the  month,  I  begged  of 
you  to  make  my  peace  with  him.  But  let  us  say  no 
more  about  it  " 

4  M.  de  Trailles  looked  at  me  with  civil  insult  in  his 
expression,  and  made  as  if  he  would  take  his  leave. 

1  44  I  am  ready  to  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

4  When  we  reached  the  Rue  des  Grès,  my  dandy 
looked  about  him  with  a  circumspection  and  uneasiness 
that  set  me  wondering.  His  face  grew  livid,  flushed, 
and  yellow,  turn  and  turn  about,  and  by  the  time  that 


Gobseck 


339 


Gobseck's  door  came  in  sight  the  perspiration  stood  in 
drops  on  his  forehead.  We  were  just  getting  out  of  the 
cabriolet,  when  a  hackney  cab  turned  into  the  street. 
My  companion's  hawk's  eye  detected  a  woman  in  the 
depths  of  the  vehicle.  His  face  lighted  up  with  a  gleam 
of  almost  savage  joy  \  he  called  to  a  little  boy  who  was 
passing,  and  gave  him  his  horse  to  hold.  Then  we  went 
up  to  the  old  bill  discounter. 

* <c  M.  Gobseck,"  said  I,  "  I  have  brought  one  of  my 
most  intimate  friends  to  see  you  (whom  I  trust  as  I 
would  trust  the  Devil,"  I  added  for  the  old  man's  private 
ear).  "  To  oblige  me  you  will  do  your  best  for  him  (at 
the  ordinary  rate),  and  pull  him  out  of  his  difficulty  (if 
it  suits  your  convenience)." 

c  M.  de  Trailles  made  his  bow  to  Gobseck,  took  a  seat, 
and  listened  to  us  with  a  courtier-like  attitude;  its  charm- 
ing humility  would  have  touched  your  heart  to  see,  but  my 
Gobseck  sits  in  his  chair  by  the  fireside  without  moving 
a  muscle,  or  changing  a  feature.  He  looked  very  like 
the  statue  of  Voltaire  under  the  peristyle  of  the  Théâtre- 
Français,  as  you  see  it  of  an  evening  ;  he  had  partly 
risen  as  if  to  bow,  and  the  skull  cap  that  covered  the 
top  of  his  head,  and  the  narrow  strip  of  sallow  forehead 
exhibited,  completed  his  likeness  to  the  man  of  marble. 

<aI  have  no  money  to  spare  except  for  my  own 
clients,"  said  he. 

c  w  So  you  are  cross  because  I  may  have  tried  in  other 
quarters  to  ruin  myself?  "  laughed  the  Count. 

c  "  Ruin  yourself  !  "  repeated  Gobseck  ironically. 

4  w  Were  you  about  to  remark  that  it  is  impossible  to 
ruin  a  man  who  has  nothing  ?  "  inquired  the  dandy. 
"  Why,  I  defy  you  to  find  a  better  stock  in  Paris  !  "  he 
cried,  swinging  round  on  his  heels. 

'This  half-earnest  buffoonery  produced  not  the 
slightest  effect  upon  Gobseck. 

c  "  Am  I  not  on  intimate  terms  with  the  Ronquerolles, 
the  Marsays,  the  Franchessinis,  the  two  Vandenesses,  the 


340 


Gobseck 


Ajuda-Pintos, — all  the  most  fashionable  young  men  in 
Paris,  in  short  ?  A  prince  and  an  ambassador  (you  know 
them  both)  are  my  partners  at  play.  I  draw  my  revenues 
from  London  and  Carlsbad  and  Baden  and  Bath.  Is  not 
this  the  most  brilliant  of  all  industries  !  " 
'"True." 

'  "  You  make  a  sponge  of  me,  begad  !  you  do.  You 
encourage  me  to  go  and  swell  myself  out  in  society,  so 
that  you  can  squeeze  me  when  I  am  hard  up  ;  but  you 
yourselves  are  sponges,  just  as  I  am,  and  death  will  give 
you  a  squeeze  some  day." 

'"That  is  possible." 

c  "  If  there  were  no  spendthrifts,  what  would  become 
of  you  ?    The  pair  of  us  are  like  soul  and  body." 
'  "  Precisely  so." 

'  "  Come,  now,  give  us  your  hand,  Grandaddy  Gobseck, 
and  be  magnanimous  if  this  is  '  true  '  and  '  possible'  and 
'  precisely  so.'  " 

'"You  come  to  me,"  the  usurer  answered  coldly, 
"  because  Girard,  Palma,  Werbrust,  and  Gigonnet  are 
full  up  of  your  paper  ;  they  are  offering  it  at  a  loss  of 
fifty  per  cent.  ;  and  as  it  is  likely  they  only  gave  you  half 
the  figure  on  the  face  of  the  bills,  they  are  not  worth 
five-and-twenty  per  cent,  of  their  supposed  value.  I 
am  your  most  obedient  !  Can  I  in  common  decency 
lend  a  stiver  to  a  man  who  owes  thirty  thousand  francs, 
and  has  not  one  farthing  ?  "  Gobseck  continued.  "The 
day  before  yesterday  you  lost  ten  thousand  francs  at  a 
ball  at  the  Baron  de  Nucingen's." 

'"Sir,"  said  the  Count,  with  rare  impudence,  "my 
affairs  are  no  concern  of  yours,"  and  he  looked  the  old 
man  up  and  down.  "A  man  has  no  debts  till  payment 
is  due." 

'"True." 

'"My  bills  will  be  duly  met." 
'  "  That  is  possible." 

'  "  And  at  this  moment  the  question  between  you  and 


Gobseck 


341 


me  is  simply  whether  the  security  I  am  going  to  offer  is 
sufficient  for  the  sum  I  have  come  to  borrow/' 
<"  Precisely." 

c  A  cab  stopped  at  the  door,  and  the  sound  of  wheels 
filled  the  room. 

C"I  will  bring  something  directly  which  perhaps  will 
satisfy  you,"  cried  the  young  man,  and  he  left  the  room. 

4  "  Oh  !  my  son,"  exclaimed  Gobseck,  rising  to  his 
feet,  and  stretching  out  his  arms  to  me,  "if  he  has  good 
security,  you  have  saved  my  life.  It  would  be  the  death 
of  me.  Werbrust  and  Gigonnet  imagined  that  they 
were  going  to  play  off  a  trick  on  me  ;  and  now,  thanks  to 
you,  I  shall  have  a  good  laugh  at  their  expense  to-night." 

c  There  was  something  frightful  about  the  old  man's 
ecstasy.  It  was  the  one  occasion  when  he  opened  his 
heart  to  me  ;  and  that  flash  of  joy,  swift  though  it  was, 
will  never  be  effaced  from  my  memory. 

*  "  Favour  me  so  far  as  to  stay  here,"  he  added.  "  I  am 
armed,  and  a  sure  shot.  I  have  gone  tiger-hunting,  and 
fought  on  the  deck  when  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
win  or  die  ;  but  I  don't  care  to  trust  yonder  elegant 
scoundrel." 

4  He  sat  down  again  in  his  armchair  before  his  bureau, 
and  his  face  grew  pale  and  impassive  as  before. 

'"  Ah  !  "  he  continued,  turning  to  me,  "you  will  see 
that  lovely  creature  I  once  told  you  about  ;  I  can  hear  a 
fine  lady's  step  in  the  corridor  ;  it  is  she,  no  doubt  ;  "  and, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  young  man  came  in  with  a 
woman  on  his  arm.  I  recognised  the  Countess,  whose 
levée  Gobseck  had  described  for  me,  one  of  old  Goriot's 
two  daughters. 

*  The  Countess  did  not  see  me  at  first  ;  I  stayed  where 
I  was  in  the  window  bay,  with  my  face  against  the  pane  ; 
but  I  saw  her  give  Maxime  a  suspicious  glance  as  she 
came  into  the  money-lender's  damp,  dark  room.  So 
beautiful  she  was,  that  in  spite  of  her  faults  I  felt  sorry 
for  her.    There  was  a  terrible  storm  of  anguish  in  her 


34* 


Gobseck 


heart;  her  haughty,  proud  features  were  drawn  and 
distorted  with  pain  which  she  strove  in  vain  to  disguise* 
The  young  man  had  come  to  be  her  evil  genius.  I 
admired  Gobseck,  whose  perspicacity  had  foreseen  their 
future  four  years  ago  at  the  first  bill  which  she  endorsed. 

'  "  Probably,"  said  I  to  myself,  u  this  monster  with  the 
angel's  face  controls  every  possible  spring  of  action  in 
her  :  rules  her  through  vanity,  jealousy,  pleasure,  and 
the  current  of  life  in  the  world."  ' 

The  Vicomtesse  de  Grandlieu  broke  in  on  the  story. 

cWhy,  the  woman's  very  virtues  have  been  turned 
against  her,'  she  exclaimed.  c  He  has  made  her  shed 
tears  of  devotion,  he  has  brought  out  the  utmost  natural 
generosity  of  woman,  and  then  abused  her  kindness  and 
made  her  pay  very  dearly  for  unhallowed  bliss.' 

Derville  did  not  understand  the  signs  which  Mme.  de 
Grandlieu  made  to  him. 

c  I  confess,'  he  said,  f  that  I  had  no  inclination  to  shed 
tears  over  the  lot  of  this  unhappy  creature,  so  brilliant  in 
society,  so  repulsive  to  eyes  that  could  read  her  heart  ; 
I  shuddered  rather  at  the  sight  of  her  murderer,  a  young 
angel  with  such  a  clear  brow,  such  red  lips  and  white 
teeth,  such  a  winning  smile.  There  they  stood  before 
their  judge,  he  scrutinising  them  much  as  some  old 
fifteenth-century  Dominican  inquisitor  might  have  peered 
into  the  dungeons  of  the  Holy  Office  while  the  torture 
was  administered  to  two  Moors. 

f  The  Countess  spoke  tremulously.  w  Sir,"  she  said,  "  is 
there  any  way  of  obtaining  the  value  of  these  diamonds, 
and  of  keeping  the  right  of  repurchase."  She  held  out  a 
jewel-case. 

c  "  Yes,  madame,"  I  put  in,  and  came  forwards. 

c  She  looked  at  me,  and  a  shudder  ran  through  her  as 
she  recognised  me,  and  gave  me  the  glance  which  means, 
"  Say  nothing  of  this,"  all  the  world  over. 

'"This,"  said  I,  "constitutes  a  sale  with  faculty  of 
redemption,  as  it  is  called,  a  formal  agreement  to  transfei 


Gobseck 


343 


and  deliver  over  a  piece  of  property,  either  real  estate  or 
personalty,  for  a  given  time,  on  the  expiry  of  which  the 
previous  owner  recovers  his  title  to  the  property  in 
question,  upon  payment  of  a  stipulated  sum." 

<  She  breathed  more  freely.  The  Count  looked  black  ; 
he  had  grave  doubts  whether  Gobseck  would  lend  very 
much  on  the  diamonds  after  such  a  fall  in  their  value. 
Gobseck,  impassive  as  ever,  had  taken  up  his  magnifying 
glass,  and  was  quietly  scrutinising  the  jewels.  If  I  were 
to  live  for  a  hundred  years,  I  should  never  forget  the 
sight  of  his  face  at  that  moment.  There  was  a  flush 
in  his  pale  cheeks  ;  his  eyes  seemed  to  have  caught  the 
sparkle  of  the  stones,  for  there  was  an  unnatural  glitter 
in  them.  He  rose  and  went  to  the  light,  holding  the 
diamonds  close  to  his  toothless  mouth,  as  if  he  meant  to 
devour  them;  mumbling  vague  words  over  them,  holding 
up  bracelets,  sprays,  necklaces,  and  tiaras  one  after 
another,  to  judge  of  their  water,  whiteness,  and  cutting  ; 
taking  them  out  of  the  jewel-case  and  putting  them  in 
again,  letting  the  play  of  the  light  bring  out  all  their 
fires.  He  was  more  like  a  child  than  an  old  man  \ 
or,  rather,  childhood  and  dotage  seemed  to  meet  in 
him. 

f  "  Fine  stones  !  The  set  would  have  fetched  three 
hundred  thousand  francs  before  the  Revolution.  What 
water!  Genuine  Asiatic  diamonds  from  Golconda  or 
Visapur.  Do  you  know  what  they  are  worth?  No, 
no  ;  no  one  in  Paris  but  Gobseck  can  appreciate  them. 
In  the  time  of  the  Empire  such  a  set  would  have  cost 
another  two  hundred  thousand  francs  !  " 

c  He  gave  a  disgusted  shrug,  and  added — 

4  "  But  now  diamonds  are  going  down  in  value  every 
day.  The  Brazilians  have  swamped  the  market  with 
them  since  the  Peace  ;  but  the  Indian  stones  are  a  better 
colour.  Others  wear  them  now  besides  court  ladies. 
Does  madame  go  to  court  ?  " 

4  While  he  flung  out  these  terrible  words,  he  examined 


344 


Gobseck 


one  stone  after  another  with  delight  which  no  words 
can  describe. 

c  "  Flawless  !  "  he  said.  8  Here  is  a  speck  !  .  •  .  here 
is  a  flaw  !  .  .  .    A  fine  stone  that  !  " 

cHis  haggard  face  was  so  lighted  up  by  the  sparkling 
jewels,  that  it  put  me  in  mind  of  a  dingy  old  mirror, 
such  as  you  see  in  country  inns.  The  glass  receives 
every  luminous  image  without  reflecting  the  light,  and 
a  traveller  bold  enough  to  look  for  his  face  in  it  beholds 
a  man  in  an  apoplectic  fit. 

f  "  Well  ?  "  asked  the  Count,  clapping  Gobseck  on  the 
shoulder. 

6  The  old  boy  trembled.  He  put  down  his  playthings 
on  his  bureau,  took  his  seat,  and  was  a  money-lender 
once  more — hard,  cold,  and  polished  as  a  marble  column. 

c  "  How  much  do  you  want  ?  " 

i  tc  One  hundred  thousand  francs  for  three  years,''  said 
the  Count. 

<aThat  is  possible,"  said  Gobseck,  and  from  a 
mahogany  box  (Gobseck's  jewel-case)  he  drew  out  a 
faultlessly  adjusted  pair  of  scales  ! 

c  He  weighed  the  diamonds,  calculating  the  value  of 
stones  and  setting  at  sight  (Heaven  knows  how  !), 
delight  and  severity  struggling  in  the  expression  of  his 
face  the  meanwhile.  The  Countess  was  plunged  in  a 
kind  of  stupor  ;  to  me,  watching  her,  it  seemed  that  she 
was  fathoming  the  depths  of  the  abyss  into  which  she 
had  fallen.  There  was  remorse  still  left  in  that  woman's 
soul.  Perhaps  a  hand  held  out  in  human  charity  might 
save  her.    I  would  try. 

4  "Are  the  diamonds  your  personal  property,  madame  ?" 
I  asked  in  a  clear  voice. 

'  "  Yes,  monsieur,"  she  said,  looking  at  me  with  proud 
eyes. 

'"Make  out  the  deed  of  purchase  with  power  of  re- 
demption, chatterbox,"  said  Gobseck  to  me,  resigning 
his  chair  at  the  bureau  in  my  favour. 


Gobseck 


345 


444  Madame  is  without  doubt  a  married  woman?"  I 
tried  again. 

c  She  nodded  abruptly. 

4  "  Then  I  will  not  draw  up  the  deed,"  said  I. 

c  "  And  why  not  ?  "  asked  Gobseck. 

4  4C  Why  not  ?  "  echoed  I,  as  I  drew  the  old  man  into  the 
bay  window  so  as  to  speak  aside  with  him.  f4  Why  not  ? 
This  woman  is  under  her  husband's  control  ;  the  agree- 
ment would  be  void  in  law  ;  you  could  not  possibly  assert 
your  ignorance  of  a  fact  recorded  on  the  very  face  of  the 
document  itself.  You  would  be  compelled  at  once  to 
produce  the  diamonds  deposited  with  you,  according  to 
the  weight,  value,  and  cutting  therein  described." 

4  Gobseck  cut  me  short  with  a  nod,  and  turned  towards 
the  guilty  couple. 

4 44  He  is  right  !  "  he  said.  cc  That  puts  the  whole  thing 
in  a  different  light.  Eighty  thousand  francs  down,  and 
you  leave  the  diamonds  with  me,"  he  added,  in  the  husky, 
flute-like  voice.  "  In  the  way  of  property,  possession  is 
as  good  as  a  title." 

'«But  "  objected  the  young  man. 

6  44  You  can  take  it  or  leave  it,"  continued  Gobseck, 
returning  the  jewel-case  to  the  lady  as  he  spoke. 

c  "  I  have  too  many  risks  to  run." 

4  44  It  would  be  better  to  throw  yourself  at  your 
husband's  feet,"  I  bent  to  whisper  in  her  ear. 

4  The  usurer  doubtless  knew  what  I  was  saying  from 
the  movement  of  my  lips.  He  gave  me  a  cool  glance. 
The  Count's  face  grew  livid.  The  Countess  was  visibly 
wavering.  Maxime  stepped  up  to  her,  and,  low  as  he 
spoke,  I  could  catch  the  words — 

c  ff  Adieu,  dear  Anastasie,  may  you  be  happy  !  As  for 
me,  by  to-morrow  my  troubles  will  be  over." 

4  44  Sir  !  "  cried  the  lady,  turning  to  Gobseck,  44 1 
accept  your  offer." 

4  "  Come,  now,"  returned  Gobseck.  44  You  have 
been  a  long  time  in  coming  to  it,  my  fair  lady." 


346 


Gobseck 


4  He  wrote  out  a  cheque  for  fifty  thousand  francs  on 
the  Bank  of  France,  and  handed  it  to  the  Countess. 

c  "  Now,"  continued  he  with  a  smile,  such  a  smile  as 
you  will  see  in  portraits  of  M.  Voltaire,  "  now  I  will 
give  you  the  rest  of  the  amount  in  bills,  thirty  thousand 
francs'  worth  of  paper  as  good  as  bullion.  This 
gentleman  here  has  just  said,  4  My  bills  will  be  met 
when  they  are  due,'  "  added  he,  producing  certain  drafts 
bearing  the  Count's  signature,  all  protested  the  day 
before  at  the  request  of  some  of  the  confraternity,  who 
had  probably  made  them  over  to  him  (Gobseck)  at  a 
considerably  reduced  figure. 

c  The  young  man  growled  out  something,  in  which 
the  words  "  Old  scoundrel  !  "  were  audible.  Daddy 
Gobseck  did  not  move  an  eyebrow.  He  drew  a  pair  of 
pistols  out  of  a  pigeon-hole,  remarking  coolly — 

i  "  As  the  insulted  man,  I  fire  first." 

6  "  Maxime,  you  owe  this  gentleman  an  explanation," 
cried  the  trembling  Countess  in  a  low  voice. 

'  "  I  had  no  intention  of  giving  offence,"  stammered 
Maxime. 

*  u  I  am  quite  sure  of  that,"  Gobseck  answered  calmly  ; 
"you  had  no  intention  of  meeting  your  bills,  that  was  all." 

4  The  Countess  rose,  bowed,  and  vanished,  with  a 
great  dread  gnawing  her,  I  doubt  not.  M.  de  Trailles 
was  bound  to  follow,  but  before  he  went  he  managed  to 
say — 

c  "  If  either  of  you  gentlemen  should  forget  himself,  I 
will  have  his  blood,  or  he  will  have  mine." 

4  "  Amen  !  "  called  Daddy  Gobseck  as  he  put  his  pistols 
back  in  their  place  ;  "  but  a  man  must  have  blood  in  his 
veins  though  before  he  can  risk  it,  my  son,  and  you  have 
nothing  but  mud  in  yours." 

1  When  the  door  was  closed,  and  the  two  vehicles 
had  gone,  Gobseck  rose  to  his  feet  and  began  to  prance 
about. 

*  u  I  have  the  diamonds  !    I  have  the  diamonds  !  "  he 


Gobseck 


347 


cried  again  and  again,  44  the  beautiful  diamonds  !  such 
diamonds  !  and  tolerably  cheaply.  Aha  !  aha  !  Wer- 
brust  and  Gigonnet,  you  thought  you  had  old  Papa 
Gobseck  !  Ego  sum  papa  !  I  am  master  of  the  lot  of 
you  !  Paid  !  paid,  principal  and  interest  !  How  silly 
they  will  look  to-night  when  I  shall  come  out  with  this 
story  between  two  games  of  dominoes  !  " 

4  The  dark  glee,  the  savage  ferocity  aroused  by  the 
possession  of  a  few  water-white  peebles,  set  me  shuddering, 
I  was  dumb  with  amazement. 

c  44  Aha  !  There  you  are,  my  boy  !  "  said  he.  "  We 
will  dine  together.  We  will  have  some  fun  at  your 
place,  for  I  haven't  a  home  of  my  own,  and  these 
restaurants,  with  their  broths,  and  sauces,  and  wines, 
would  poison  the  Devil  himself." 

4  Something  in  my  face  suddenly  brought  back  the 
usual  cold,  impassive  expression  to  his. 

4  "  You  don't  understand  it,"  he  said,  and  sitting  down 
by  the  hearth,  he  put  a  tin  saucepan  full  of  milk  on  the 
brazier. — "Will  you  breakfast  with  me?  "  continued  he. 
"  Perhaps  there  will  be  enough  here  for  two." 

4  44  Thanks,"  said  I,  44 1  do  not  breakfast  till  noon." 

4 1  had  scarcely  spoken  before  hurried  footsteps  sounded 
from  the  passage.  The  stranger  stopped  at  Gobseck's 
door  and  rapped  ;  there  was  that  in  the  knock  which 
suggested  a  man  transported  with  rage.  Gobseck  re- 
connoitred him  through  the  grating  ;  then  he  opened  the 
door,  and  in  came  a  man  of  thirty-five  or  so,  judged 
harmless  apparently  in  spite  of  his  anger.  The  new- 
comer, who  was  quite  plainly  dressed,  bore  a  strong 
resemblance  to  the  late  Duc  de  Richelieu,  You  must 
often  have  met  him,  he  was  the  Countess's  husband,  a 
man  with  the  aristocratic  figure  (permit  the  expression 
to  pass)  peculiar  to  statesmen  of  your  faubourg. 

4  44  Sir,"  said  this  person,  addressing  himself  to  Gob- 
seck, who  had  quite  recovered  his  tranquillity,  44  did  my 
wife  go  out  of  this  house  just  now  ?  " 


34» 


Gobseck 


4  c<  That  is  possible." 

*  H  Well,  sir  ?  do  you  not  take  my  meaning  ?  f? 

€  "  I  have  not  the  honour  of  the  acquaintance  of  my 
lady  your  wife,"  returned  Gobseck,  <c  I  have  had  a 
good  many  visitors  this  morning,  women  and  men,  and 
mannish  young  ladies,  and  young  gentlemen  who  look 
like  young  ladies.    I  should  find  it  very  hard  to  say  " 

c  "  A  truce  to  jesting,  sir  !  I  mean  the  woman  who 
has  this  moment  gone  out  from  you." 

c  "  How  can  I  know  whether  she  is  your  wife  or  not  ? 
I  never  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  before." 

c  "  You  are  mistaken,  M.  Gobseck,"  said  the  Count, 
with  profound  irony  in  his  voice.  u  We  have  met 
before,  one  morning  in  my  wife's  bedroom.  You  had 
come  to  demand  payment  for  a  bill — no  bill  of  hers." 

'"It  was  no  business  of  mine  to  inquire  what  value 
she  had  received  for  it,"  said  Gobseck,  with  a  malignant 
look  at  the  Count.  u  I  had  come  by  the  bill  in  the 
way  of  business.  At  the  same  time,  monsieur,"  con- 
tinued Gobseck,  quietly  pouring  coffee  into  his  bowl  of 
milk,  without  a  trace  of  excitement  or  hurry  in  his  voice, 
"you  will  permit  me  to  observe  that  your  right  to  enter 
my  house  and  expostulate  with  me  is  far  from  proven  to 
my  mind.  I  came  of  age  in  the  sixty-first  year  of  the 
preceding  century." 

f  u  Sir,"  said  the  Count,  "  you  have  just  bought  family 
diamonds,  which  do  not  belong  to  my  wife,  for  a  mere 
trifle." 

'  "  Without  feeling  it  incumbent  upon  me  to  tell  you 
my  private  affairs,  I  will  tell  you  this  much,  M.  le 
Comte — if  Mme.  la  Comtesse  has  taken  your  diamonds, 
you  should  have  sent  a  circular  round  to  all  the  jewellers, 
giving  them  notice  not  to  buy  them  ;  she  might  have 
sold  them  separately." 

1  "  You  know  my  wife,  sir  !  "  roared  the  Count. 

<  «  True." 

c  "  She  is  in  her  husband's  power." 


Gobseck 


349 


4  "  That  is  possible." 

4  44  She  had  no  right  to  dispose  of  those  diamonds  " 

4  "Precisely." 

<«  Very  well,  sir?* 

c  a  Very  well,  sir.  I  knew  your  wife,  and  she  is  in  her 
husband's  power;  I  am  quite  willing,  she  is  in  the 
power  of  a  good  many  people  ;  but — I — do — not — know 
■ — your  diamonds.  If  Mme.  la  Comtesse  can  put  her 
name  to  a  bill,  she  can  go  into  business  of  course,  and 
buy  and  sell  diamonds  on  her  own  account.  The  thing 
is  plain  on  the  face  of  it  !  " 

4  w  Good  day,  sir  !  "  cried  the  Count,  now  white  with 
rage.    44  There  are  courts  of  justice." 

4  "  Quite  so." 

4  44  This  gentleman  here,"  he  added,  indicating  me, 
"  was  a  witness  of  the  sale." 
4  a  That  is  possible." 

4  The  Count  turned  to  go.  Feeling  the  gravity  of  the 
affair,  I  suddenly  put  in  between  the  two  belligerents. 

4  "  M.  le  Comte,"  said  I,  "  you  are  right,  and  M. 
Gobseck  is  by  no  means  in  the  wrong.  You  could  not 
prosecute  the  purchaser  without  bringing  your  wife  into 
court,  and  the  whole  of  the  odium  would  not  fall  on  her. 
I  am  an  attorney,  and  I  owe  it  to  myself,  and  still  more 
to  my  professional  position,  to  declare  that  the  diamonds 
of  which  you  speak  were  purchased  by  M.  Gobseck  in 
my  presence;  but,  in  my  opinion,  it  would  be  unwise 
to  dispute  the  legality  of  the  sale,  especially  as  the  goods 
are  not  readily  recognisable.  In  equity  your  contention 
would  lie,  in  law  it  would  collapse.  M.  Gobseck  is  too 
honest  a  man  to  deny  that  the  sale  was  a  profitable 
transaction,  more  especially  as  my  conscience,  no  less 
than  my  duty,  compels  me  to  make  the  admission.  But 
once  bring  the  case  into  a  court  of  law,  M.  le  Comte, 
the  issue  would  be  doubtful.  My  advice  to  you  is  to 
come  to  terms  with  M.  Gobseck,  who  can  plead  that  he 
bought  the  diamonds  in  all  good  faith  ;  you  would  be  bound 


350  Gobseck 

in  any  case  to  return  the  purchase-money.  Consent  to 
an  arrangement,  with  power  to  redeem  at  the  end  of 
seven  or  eight  months,  or  a  year  even,  or  any  convenient 
lapse  of  time,  for  the  repayment  of  the  sum  borrowed 
by  Mme.  la  Comtesse,  unless  you  would  prefer  to 
repurchase  them  outright  and  give  security  for  repay- 
ment." 

c  Gobseck  dipped  his  bread  into  the  bowl  of  coffee,  and 
ate  with  perfect  indifference  ;  but  at  the  words  "  come  to 
terms,"  he  looked  at  me  as  who  should  say,  "  A  fine 
fellow  that  !  he  has  learned  something  from  my  lessons  !  " 
And  I,  for  my  part,  riposted  with  a  glance,  which  he 
understood  uncommonly  well.  The  business  was  dubious 
and  shady  \  there  was  pressing  need  of  coming  to  terms. 
Gobseck  could  not  deny  all  knowledge  of  it,  foi"  I  should 
appear  as  a  witness.  The  Count  thanked  me  with  a 
smile  of  goodwill. 

*  In  the  debate  which  followed,  Gobseck  showed  greed 
enough  and  skill  enough  to  baffle  a  whole  congress  of 
diplomatists  ;  but  in  the  end  I  drew  up  an  instrument,  in 
which  the  Count  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  eighty- 
five  thousand  francs,  interest  included,  in  consideration 
of  which  Gobseck  undertook  to  return  the  diamonds  to 
the  Count. 

4  a  What  waste  !  "  exclaimed  he  as  he  put  his  signature 
to  the  agreement.  "  How  is  it  possible  to  bridge  such  a 
gulf?" 

c  "  Have  you  many  children,  sir  ? w  Gobseck  asked 
gravely. 

4  The  Count  winced  at  the  question  ->  it  was  as  if  the 
old  money-lender,  like  an  experienced  physician,  had  put 
his  finger  at  once  on  the  sore  spot.  The  Comtesse's 
husband  did  not  reply. 

4  u  Well,"  said  Gobseck,  taking  the  pained  silence  for 
answer,  "  I  know  your  story  by  heart.  The  woman  is 
a  fiend,  but  perhaps  you  love  her  still  j  I  can  well 
believe  it  ;  she  made  an  impression  on  me.  Perhaps, 


Gobseck 


3Sl 


too,  you  would  rather  save  your  fortune,  and  keep  it  for 
one  or  two  of  your  children  ?  Well,  fling  yourself  into 
the  whirlpool  of  society,  lose  that  fortune  at  play,  come 
to  Gobseck  pretty  often.  The  world  will  say  that  I  am  a 
Jew,  a  Tartar,  a  usurer,  a  pirate,  will  say  that  I  have 
ruined  you  !  I  snap  my  fingers  at  them  !  If  anybody 
insults  me,  I  lay  my  man  out  ;  nobody  is  a  surer  shot  nor 
handles  a  rapier  better  than  your  servant.  And  every 
one  knows  it.  Then,  have  a  friend — if  you  can  find  one — 
and  make  over  your  property  to  him  by  a  fictitious  sale. 
You  call  that  a  fidei  commissum,  don't  you  ?  "  he  asked, 
turning  to  me. 

c  The  Count  seemed  to  be  entirely  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts. 

c "You  shall  have  your  money  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
"  have  the  diamonds  in  readiness,"  and  he  went. 

i  "  There  goes  one  who  looks  to  me  to  be  as  stupid  as 
an  honest  man,"  Gobseck  said  coolly  when  the  Count 
had  gone. 

c  "  Say  rather  stupid  as  a  man  of  passionate  nature." 

*  "  The  Count  owes  you  your  fee  for  drawing  up  the 
agreement  !  "  Gobseck  called  after  me  as  I  took  my 
leave. 

'One  morning,  a  few  days  after  the  scene  which 
initiated  me  into  the  terrible  depths  beneath  the  surface 
of  the  life  of  a  woman  of  fashion,  the  Count  came  into 
my  private  office. 

c  "  I  have  come  to  consult  you  on  a  matter  of  grave 
moment,"  he  said,  "  and  I  begin  by  telling  you  that  I  have 
perfect  confidence  in  you,  as  I  hope  to  prove  to  you. 
Your  behaviour  to  Mme.  de  Grandlieu  is  above  all  praise," 
the  Count  went  on.  (You  see,  madame,  that  you 
have  paid  me  a  thousand  times  over  for  a  very  simple 
matter.) 

'I  bowed  respectfully,  and  replied  that  I  had  done 
nothing  but  the  duty  of  an  honest  man. 


352  Gobseck 

c  ff  Well,"  the  Count  went  on,  a  I  have  made  a  great 
many  inquiries  about  the  singular  personage  to  whom 
you  owe  your  position.  And  from  all  that  I  can  learn, 
Gobseck  is  a  philosopher  of  the  Cynic  school.  What 
do  you  think  of  his  probity  ?  " 

c"  M.  le  Comte,"  said  I,  "  Gobseck  is  my  benefactor 
— at  fifteen  per  cent,"  I  added,  laughing.  "But  his 
avarice  does  not  authorise  me  to  paint  him  to  the  life  for 
a  stranger's  benefit." 

c  "  Speak  out,  sir.  Your  frankness  cannot  injure  Gob- 
seck or  yourself.  I  do  not  expect  to  find  an  angel  in  a 
pawnbroker." 

4  "Daddy  Gobseck,"  I  began,  "is  intimately  con- 
vinced of  the  truth  of  the  principle  which  he  takes  for 
a  rule  of  life.  In  his  opinion,  money  is  a  commodity 
which  you  may  sell  cheap  or  dear,  according  to  circum- 
stances, with  a  clear  conscience.  A  capitalist,  by 
charging  a  high  rate  of  interest,  becomes  in  his  eyes  a 
secured  partner  by  anticipation  in  the  profits  of  a  paying 
concern  or  speculation.  Apart  from  the  peculiar  philo- 
sophical views  of  human  nature  and  financial  principles, 
which  enable  him  to  behave  like  a  usurer,  I  am  fully 
persuaded  that,  out  of  his  business,  he  is  the  most  loyal 
and  upright  soul  in  Paris.  There  are  two  men  in  him  j 
he  is  petty  and  great — a  miser  and  a  philosopher.  If  I 
were  to  die  and  leave  a  family  behind  me,  he  would  be 
the  guardian  whom  I  should  appoint.  This  was  how  I 
came  to  see  Gobseck  in  this  light,  monsieur.  I  know 
nothing  of  his  past  life.  He  may  have  been  a  pirate, 
may,  for  anything  I  know,  have  been  all  over  the  world, 
trafficking  in  diamonds,  or  men,  or  women,  or  State 
secrets  ;  but  this  I  affirm  of  him — never  has  human  soul 
been  more  thoroughly  tempered  and  tried.  When  I 
paid  off  my  loan,  I  asked  him,  with  a  little  circumlocu- 
tion of  course,  how  it  was  that  he  had  made  me  pay  such 
an  exorbitant  rate  of  interest  ;  and  why,  seeing  that  I 
was  a  friend,  and  he  meant  to  do  me  a  kindness,  he 


Gobseck 


353 


should  not  have  yielded  to  the  wish  and  made  it  com- 
plete.— '  My  son,'  he  said,  4 1  released  you  from  all  need 
to  feel  any  gratitude  by  giving  you  ground  for  the  belief 
that  you  owed  me  nothing.' — So  we  are  the  best  friends 
in  the  world.  That  answer,  monsieur,  gives  you  the 
man  better  than  any  amount  of  description." 

4  "I  have  made  up  my  mind  once  and  for  all,"  said  the 
Count.  "  Draw  up  the  necessary  papers  ;  I  am  going  to 
transfer  my  property  to  Gobseck.  I  have  no  one  but 
you  to  trust  to  in  the  draft  of  the  counter-deed,  which 
will  declare  that  this  transfer  is  a  simulated  sale,  and  that 
Gobseck  as  trustee  will  administer  my  estate  (as  he 
knows  how  to  administer),  and  undertakes  to  make  over 
my  fortune  to  my  eldest  son  when  he  comes  of  age. 
Now,  sir,  this  I  must  tell  you  :  I  should  be  afraid  to  have 
that  precious  document  in  my  own  keeping.  My  boy  is 
so  fond  of  his  mother,  that  I  cannot  trust  him  with  it. 
So  dare  I  beg  of  you  to  keep  it  for  me  ?  In  case  of  death, 
Gobseck  would  make  you  legatee  of  my  property.  Every 
contingency  is  provided  for." 

c  The  Count  paused  for  a  moment.  He  seemed  greatly 
agitated. 

c  u  A  thousand  pardons,"  he  said  at  length  ;  "I  am  in 
great  pain,  and  have  very  grave  misgivings  as  to  my 
health.  Recent  troubles  have  disturbed  me  very  pain- 
fully, and  forced  me  to  take  this  great  step." 

c<<  Allow  me  first  to  thank  you,  monsieur,"  said  I, 
"  for  the  trust  you  place  in  me.  But  I  am  bound  to 
deserve  it  by  pointing  out  to  you  that  you  are  disin- 
heriting your — other  children.  They  bear  your  name. 
Merely  as  the  children  of  a  once-loved  wife,  now  fallen 
from  her  position,  they  have  a  claim  to  an  assured  exist- 
ence. I  tell  you  plainly  that  I  cannot  accept  the  trust 
with  which  you  propose  to  honour  me  unless  their  future 
is  secured." 

cThe  Count  trembled  violently  at  the  words,  and 
tears  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  grasped  my  hand,  saying, 

z 


354 


Gobseck 


"  I  did  not  know  my  man  thoroughly.  You  have  made 
me  both  glad  and  sorry.  We  will  make  provision  for 
the  children  in  the  counter-deed." 

4  I  went  with  him  to  the  door  ;  it  seemed  to  me  that 
there  was  a  glow  of  satisfaction  in  his  face  at  the  thought 
of  this  act  of  justice. 

cNow,  Camille,  this  is  how  a  young  wife  takes  the 
first  step  to  the  brink  of  a  precipice.  A  quadrille,  a 
ballad,  a  picnic  party  is  sometimes  cause  sufficient  of 
frightful  evils.  You  are  hurried  on  by  the  presump- 
tuous voice  of  vanity  and  pride,  on  the  faith  of  a  smile  or 
through  giddiness  and  folly  !  Shame  and  misery  and 
remorse  are  three  Furies  awaiting  every  woman  the 
moment  she  oversteps  the  limits  J 

6  Poor  Camille  can  hardly  keep  awake,'  the  Vicomtesse 
hastily  broke  in. — c  Go  to  bed,  child  ;  you  have  no  need 
of  appalling  pictures  to  keep  you  pure  in  heart  and 
conduct/ 

Camille  de  Grandlieu  took  the  hint  and  went. 

4  You  were  going  rather  too  far,  dear  M.  Derville,' 
said  the  Vicomtesse,  can  attorney  is  not  a  mother  of 
daughters  nor  yet  a  preacher.' 

c  But  any  newspaper  is  a  thousand  times  ' 

c  Poor  Derville  ! 9  exclaimed  the  Vicomtesse,  6  what 
has  come  over  you  ?  Do  you  really  imagine  that  I 
allow  a  daughter  of  mine  to  read  the  newspapers  ? — Go 
on,'  she  added  after  a  pause. 

'Three  months  after  everything  was  signed  and 
sealed  between  the  Count  and  Gobseck  ' 

*  You  can  call  him  the  Comte  de  Restaud,  now  that 
Camille  is  not  here,'  said  the  Vicomtesse. 

c  So  be  it  !  Well,  time  went  by,  and  I  saw  nothing  of  i 
the  counter-deed,  which  by  rights  should  have  been 
in  my  hands.  An  attorney  in  Paris  lives  in  such  a  whirl 
of  business  that  with  certain  exceptions  which  we  make 
for  ourselves,  we  have  not  the  time  to  give  each  individual 
client  the  amount  of  interest  which  he  himself  takes  in 


Gobseck 


355 


his  affairs.  Still,  one  day  when  Gobseck  came  to  dine 
with  me,  I  asked  him  as  we  left  the  table  if  he  knew 
how  it  was  that  I  had  heard  no  more  of  M.  de  Restaud. 

c  "  There  are  excellent  reasons  for  that,"  he  said  ;  "  the 
noble  Count  is  at  death's  door.  He  is  one  of  the  soft 
stamp  that  cannot  learn  how  to  put  an  end  to  chagrin, 
and  allow  it  to  wear  them  out  instead.  Life  is  a  craft, 
a  profession  ;  every  man  must  take  the  trouble  to  learn 
that  business.  When  he  has  learned  what  life  is  by  dint 
of  painful  experiences,  the  fibre  of  him  is  toughened, 
and  acquires  a  certain  elasticity,  so  that  he  has  his  sensi- 
bilities under  his  own  control  ;  he  disciplines  himself 
till  his  nerves  are  like  steel  springs,  which  always  bend, 
but  never  break  ;  given  a  sound  digestion,  and  a  man  in 
such  training  ought  to  live  as  long  as  the  cedars  of 
Lebanon,  and  famous  trees  they  are." 

c  H  Then  is  the  Count  actually  dying  ?  "  I  asked. 

c  "  That  is  possible,"  said  Gobseck  ;  "  the  winding  up  of 
his  estate  will  be  a  juicy  bit  of  business  for  you." 

i  I  looked  at  my  man,  and  said,  by  way  of  sounding 
him — 

(  "Just  explain  to  me  how  it  is  that  we,  the  Count  and 
I,  are  the  only  men  in  whom  you  take  an  interest  ?  " 

c  "  Because  you  are  the  only  two  who  have  trusted  me 
without  finessing,"  he  said. 

'Although  this  answer  warranted  my  belief  that 
Gobseck  would  act  fairly  even  if  the  counter-deed  were 
lost,  I  resolved  to  go  to  see  the  Count.  I  pleaded  a 
business  engagement,  and  we  separated. 

c  I  went  straight  to  the  Rue  du  Helder,  and  was  shown 
into  a  room  where  the  Countess  sat  playing  with  her 
children.  When  she  heard  my  name,  she  sprang  up  and 
came  to  meet  me,  then  she  sat  down  and  pointed  without 
a  word  to  a  chair  by  the  fire.  Her  face  wore  the 
inscrutable  mask  beneath  which  women  of  the  world 
conceal  their  most  vehement  emotions.  Trouble  had 
withered  that  face  already.    Nothing  of  its  beauty  now 


356 


Gobseck 


remained,  save  the  marvellous  outlines  in  which  its 
principal  charm  had  lain. 

c  "  It  is  essential,  madame,  that  I  should  speak  to 
M.  le  Comte  " 

cccIf  so,  you  would  be  more  favoured  than  I  am,"  she 
said,  interrupting  me.  "  M.  de  Restaud  will  see  no 
one.  He  will  hardly  allow  his  doctor  to  come,  and  will 
not  be  nursed  even  by  me.  When  people  are  ill,  they 
have  such  strange  fancies  !  They  are  like  children,  they 
do  not  know  what  they  want." 

c  "  Perhaps,  like  children,  they  know  very  well  what 
they  want." 

c  The  Countess  reddened.  I  almost  repented  a  thrust 
worthy  of  Gobseck.  So,  by  way  of  changing  the  con- 
versation, I  added,  "But  M.  de  Restaud  cannot  possibly 
lie  there  alone  all  day,  madame." 

c  "  His  oldest  boy  is  with  him,"  she  said. 

c  It  was  useless  to  gaze  at  the  Countess  ;  she  did  not 
blush  this  time,  and  it  looked  to  me  as  if  she  were 
resolved  more  firmly  than  ever  that  I  should  not 
penetrate  into  her  secrets. 

c  "  You  must  understand,  madame,  that  my  proceeding 

is  no  way  indiscreet.    It  is  strongly  to  his  interest  " 

I  bit  my  lips,  feeling  that  I  had  gone  the  wrong  way  to 
work.  The  Countess  immediately  took  advantage  of 
my  slip. 

'"My  interests  are  in  no  way  separate  from  my 
husband's,  sir,"  said  she.  "  There  is  nothing  to  prevent 
your  addressing  yourself  to  me  " 

c"The  business  which  brings  me  here  concerns  no 
one  but  M.  le  Comte,"  I  said  firmly. 

6  "I  will  let  him  know  of  your  wish  to  see  him." 

cThe  civil  tone  and  expression  assumed  for  the 
occasion  did  not  impose  upon  me  ;  I  divined  that  she 
would  never  allow  me  to  see  her  husband.  I  chatted 
on  about  indifferent  matters  for  a  little  while,  so  as 
to  study  her;   but,  like  all  women  who  have  once 


Gobseck 


357 


begun  to  plot  for  themselves,  she  could  dissimulate 
with  the  rare  perfection  which,  in  your  sex,  means 
the  last  degree  of  perfidy.  If  I  may  dare  to  say  it, 
I  looked  for  anything  from  her,  even  a  crime.  She 
produced  this  feeling  in  me,  because  it  was  so  evident 
from  her  manner  and  in  all  that  she  did  or  said,  down  to 
the  very  inflections  of  her  voice,  that  she  had  an  eye  to 
the  future.    I  went. 

cNow  I  will  pass  on  to  the  final  scenes  of  this 
adventure,  throwing  in  a  few  circumstances  brought  to 
light  by  time,  and  some  details  guessed  by  Gobseck's 
perspicacity  or  by  my  own. 

'When  the  Comte  de  Restaud  apparently  plunged 
into  the  vortex  of  dissipation,  something  passed  between 
the  husband  and  wife,  something  which  remains  an 
impenetrable  secret,  but  the  wife  sank  even  lower  in  the 
husband's  eyes.  As  soon  as  he  became  so  ill  that  he  was 
obliged  to  take  to  his  bed,  he  manifested  his  aversion  for 
the  Countess  and  the  two  youngest  children.  He  for- 
bade them  to  enter  his  room,  and  any  attempt  to  dis- 
obey his  wishes  brought  on  such  dangerous  attacks  that 
the  doctor  implored  the  Countess  to  submit  to  her 
husband's  wish. 

4  Mme.  de  Restaud  had  seen  the  family  estates  and 
property,  nay,  the  very  mansion  in  which  she  lived,  pass 
into  the  hands  of  Gobseck,  who  appeared  to  play  the 
fantastic  part  of  ogre  so  far  as  their  wealth  was  concerned. 
She  partially  understood  what  her  husband  was  doing,  no 
doubt.  M.  de  Trailles  was  travelling  in  England  (his 
creditors  had  been  a  little  too  pressing  of  late),  and  no  one 
else  was  in  a  position  to  enlighten  the  lady,  and  explain 
that  her  husband  was  taking  precautions  against  her  at 
Gobseck's  suggestion.  It  is  said  that  she  held  out  for  a 
long  while  before  she  gave  the  signature  required  by 
French  law  for  the  sale  of  the  property  ;  nevertheless  the 
Count  gained  his  point.  The  Countess  was  convinced 
that  her  husband  was  realising  his  fortune,  and  that 


35» 


Gobseck 


somewhere  or  other  there  would  be  a  little  bunch  of 
notes  representing  the  amount  ;  they  had  been  deposited 
with  a  notary,  or  perhaps  at  the  Bank,  or  in  some  safe 
hiding-place.  Following  out  her  train  of  thought,  it 
was  evident  that  M.  de  Restaud  must  of  necessity  have 
some  kind  of  document  in  his  possession  by  which  any 
remaining  property  could  be  recovered  and  handed  over 
to  his  son. 

4  So  she  made  up  her  mind  to  keep  the  strictest 
possible  watch  over  the  sick-room.  She  ruled  despotically 
in  the  house,  and  everything  in  it  was  submitted  to  this 
feminine  espionage.  All  day  she  sat  in  the  salon  adjoin- 
ing her  husband's  room,  so  that  she  could  hear  every 
syllable  that  he  uttered,  every  least  movement  that  he 
made.  She  had  a  bed  put  there  for  her  of  a  night,  but 
she  did  not  sleep  very  much.  The  doctor  was  entirely 
in  her  interests.  Such  wifely  devotion  seemed  praise- 
worthy enough.  With  the  natural  subtlety  of  perfidy, 
she  took  care  to  disguise  M.  de  Restaud's  repugnance 
for  her,  and  feigned  distress  so  perfectly  that  she  gained 
a  sort  of  celebrity.  Strait-laced  women  were  even 
found  to  say  that  she  had  expiated  her  sins.  Always 
before  her  eyes  she  beheld  a  vision  of  the  destitution  to 
follow  on  the  Count's  death  if  her  presence  of  mind 
should  fail  her  ;  and  in  these  ways  the  wife,  repulsed 
from  the  bed  of  pain  on  which  her  husband  lay  and 
groaned,  had  drawn  a  charmed  circle  round  about  it.  So 
near,  yet  kept  at  a  distance  ;  all-powerful,  but  in  dis- 
grace, the  apparently  devoted  wife  was  lying  in  wait  for 
death  and  opportunity  ;  crouching  like  the  ant-lion  at 
the  bottom  of  his  spiral  pit,  ever  on  the  watch  for  the 
prey  that  cannot  escape,  listening  to  the  fall  of  every 
grain  of  sand. 

c  The  strictest  censor  could  not  but  recognise  that  the 
Countess  pushed  maternal  sentiment  to  the  last  degree. 
Her  father's  death  had  been  a  lesson  to  her,  people  said. 
She  worshipped  her  children.    They  were  so  young  that 


Gobseck 


359 


she  could  hide  the  disorders  of  her  life  from  their  eyes, 
and  could  win  their  love  ;  she  had  given  them  the  best 
and  most  brilliant  education.  I  confess  that  I  cannot 
help  admiring  her  and  feeling  sorry  for  her.  Gobseck 
used  to  joke  me  about  it.  Just  about  that  time  she 
had  discovered  Maxime's  baseness,  and  was  expiating 
the  sins  of  the  past  in  tears  of  blood.  I  am  sure 
of  it.  Hateful  as  were  the  measures  which  she  took  for 
regaining  control  of  her  husband's  money,  were  they 
not  the  result  of  a  mother's  love,  and  a  desire  to  repair 
the  wrongs  she  had  done  her  children  ?  And  again,  it 
may  be,  like  many  a  woman  who  has  experienced  the 
storms  of  lawless  love,  she  felt  a  longing  to  lead  a 
virtuous  life  again.  Perhaps  she  only  learned  the  worth 
of  that  life  when  she  came  to  reap  the  woful  harvest 
sown  by  her  errors. 

*  Every  time  that  little  Ernest  came  out  of  his  father's 
room,  she  put  him  through  a  searching  examination  as  to 
all  that  his  father  had  done  or  said.  The  boy  willingly 
complied  with  his  mother's  wishes,  and  told  her  even  more 
than  she  asked  in  her  anxious  affection,  as  he  thought. 

6  My  visit  was  a  ray  of  light  for  the  Countess.  She 
was  determined  to  see  in  me  the  instrument  of  the 
Count's  vengeance,  and  resolved  that  I  should  not  be 
allowed  to  go  near  the  dying  man.  I  augured  ill  of  all 
this,  and  earnestly  wished  for  an  interview,  for  I  was  not 
easy  in  my  mind  about  the  fate  of  the  counter-deed. 
If  it  should  fall  into  the  Countess's  hands,  she  might 
turn  it  to  her  own  account,  and  that  would  be  the 
beginning  of  a  series  of  interminable  lawsuits  between 
her  and  Gobseck.  I  knew  the  usurer  well  enough  to 
feel  convinced  that  he  would  never  give  up  the  property 
to  her;  there  was  room  for  plenty  of  legal  quibbling 
over  a  series  of  transfers,  and  I  alone  knew  all  the  ins 
and  outs  of  the  matter.  I  was  minded  to  prevent 
such  a  tissue  of  misfortune,  so  I  weat  to  the  Coun- 
tess a  second  time. 


36o 


Gobseck 


4 1  have  noticed,  madame,'  said  Derville,  turning  to 
the  Vicomtesse,  and  speaking  in  a  confidential  tone, c  cer- 
tain moral  phenomena  to  which  we  do  not  pay  enough 
attention.  I  am  naturally  an  observer  of  human  nature, 
and  instinctively  I  bring  a  spirit  of  analysis  to  the  busi- 
ness that  I  transact  in  the  interest  of  others,  when 
human  passions  are  called  into  lively  play.  Now,  I  have 
often  noticed,  and  always  with  new  wonder,  that  two 
antagonists  almost  always  divine  each  other's  inmost 
thoughts  and  ideas.  Two  enemies  sometimes  possess  a 
power  of  clear  insight  into  mental  processes,  and  read 
each  other's  minds  as  two  lovers  read  in  either  soul. 
So  when  we  came  together,  the  Countess  and  I,  I 
understood  at  once  the  reason  of  her  antipathy  for  me, 
disguised  though  it  was  by  the  most  gracious  forms 
of  politeness  and  civility.  I  had  been  forced  to  be  her 
confidant,  and  a  woman  cannot  but  hate  the  man  before 
whom  she  is  compelled  to  blush.  And  she  on  her  side 
knew  that  if  I  was  the  man  in  whom  her  husband  placed 
confidence,  that  husband  had  not  as  yet  given  up  his 
fortune. 

c  I  will  spare  you  the  conversation,  but  it  abides  in  my 
memory  as  one  of  the  most  dangerous  encounters  in  my 
career.  Nature  had  bestowed  on  her  all  the  qualities 
which,  combined,  are  irresistibly  fascinating;  she  could  be 
pliant  and  proud  by  turns,  and  confiding  and  coaxing  in 
her  manner  ;  she  even  went  so  far  as  to  try  to  arouse 
curiosity  and  kindle  love  in  her  effort  to  subjugate  me. 
It  was  a  failure.  As  I  took  my  leave  of  her,  I  caught  a 
gleam  of  hate  and  rage  in  her  eyes  that  made  me  shudder. 
We  parted  enemies.  She  would  fain  have  crushed  me  out 
of  existence  ;  and  for  my  own  part,  I  felt  pity  for  her,  and 
for  some  natures  pity  is  the  deadliest  of  insults.  This 
feeling  pervaded  the  last  representations  I  put  before 
her  •>  and  when  I  left  her,  I  left,  I  think,  dread  in  the 
depths  of  her  soul,  by  declaring  that,  turn  which  way  she 
would,  ruin  lay  inevitably  before  her. 


Gobseck  361 

<ccIf  I  were  to  see  M.  le  Comte,  your  children's 
property  at  any  rate  would  " 

c  "  I  should  be  at  your  mercy/'  she  said,  breaking  in 
upon  me,  disgust  in  her  gesture. 

'Now  that  we  had  spoken  frankly,  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  save  the  family  from  impending  destitution.  I 
resolved  to  strain  the  law  at  need  to  gain  my  ends,  and 
this  was  what  I  did.  I  sued  the  Comte  de  Restaud  for 
a  sum  of  money,  ostensibly  due  to  Gobseck,  and  gained 
judgment.  The  Countess,  of  course,  did  not  allow  him 
to  know  of  this,  but  I  had  gained  my  point,  I  had  a 
right  to  affix  seals  to  everything  on  the  death  of  the 
Count.  I  bribed  one  of  the  servants  in  the  house — the 
man  undertook  to  let  me  know  at  any  hour  of  the  day 
or  night  if  his  master  should  be  at  the  point  of  death, 
so  that  I  could  intervene  at  once,  scare  the  Countess 
with  a  threat  of  affixing  seals,  and  so  secure  the  counter- 
deed. 

*  I  learned  later  on  that  the  woman  was  studying  the 
Code,  with  her  husband's  dying  moans  in  her  ears.  If 
we  could  picture  the  thoughts  of  those  who  stand  about 
a  deathbed,  what  fearful  sights  should  we  not  see  ? 
Money  is  always  the  motive-spring  of  the  schemes 
elaborated,  of  all  the  plans  that  are  made  and  the  plots 
that  are  woven  about  it  !  Let  us  leave  these  details, 
nauseating  in  the  nature  of  them  ;  but  perhaps  they  may 
have  given  you  some  insight  into  all  that  this  husband 
and  wife  endured  ;  perhaps  too  they  may  unveil  much 
that  is  passing  in  secret  in  other  houses.' 

c  For  two  months  the  Comte  de  Restaud  lay  on  his 
bed,  alone,  and  resigned  to  his  fate.  Mortal  disease  was 
slowly  sapping  the  strength  of  mind  and  body.  Unac- 
countable and  grotesque  sick  fancies  preyed  upon  him  ; 
he  would  not  suffer  them  to  set  his  room  in  order,  no 
one  should  nurse  him,  he  would  not  even  allow  them  to 
make  his  bed.  All  his  surroundings  bore  the  marks  of 
this  last  degree  of  apathy,  the  furniture  was  out  of  place, 


3Ô2 


Gobseck 


the  daintiest  trifles  were  covered  with  dust  and  cobwebs, 
In  health  he  had  been  a  man  of  refined  and  expensive 
tastes,  now  he  positively  delighted  in  the  comfortless  look 
of  the  room.  A  host  of  objects  required  in  illness — 
rows  of  medicine  bottles,  empty  and  full,  most  of  them 
dirty,  crumpled  linen  and  broken  plates,  littered  the 
writing-table,  chairs,  and  chimney-piece.  An  open 
warming-pan  lay  on  the  floor  before  the  grate  ;  a  bath, 
still  full  of  mineral  water,  had  not  been  taken  away. 
The  sense  of  coming  dissolution  pervaded  all  the  details 
of  an  unsightly  chaos.  Signs  of  death  appeared  in  things 
inanimate  before  the  Destroyer  came  to  the  body  on  the 
bed.  The  Comte  de  Restaud  could  not  bear  the  day- 
light, the  Venetian  shutters  were  closed,  darkness 
deepened  the  gloom  in  the  dismal  chamber.  The  sick 
man  himself  had  wasted  greatly.  All  the  life  in  him 
seemed  to  have  taken  refuge  in  the  still  brilliant  eyes. 
The  livid  whiteness  of  his  face  was  something  horrible 
to  see,  enhanced  as  it  was  by  the  long  dank  locks  of  hair 
that  straggled  along  his  cheeks,  for  he  would  never  suffer 
them  to  cut  it.  He  looked  like  some  religious  fanatic  in 
the  desert.  Mental  suffering  was  extinguishing  all 
human  instincts  in  this  man  of  scarce  fifty  years  of 
age,  whom  all  Paris  had  known  as  so  brilliant  and  so 
successful.' 

'One  morning  at  the  beginning  of  December  1824, 
he  looked  up  at  Ernest,  who  sat  at  the  foot  of  his  bed 
gazing  at  his  father  with  wistful  eyes. 

4 "Are  you  in  pain  ?  "  the  little  Vicomte  asked. 

c  "  No,"  said  the  Count,  with  a  ghastly  smile,  u  it  all 
lies  here  and  about  my  heart  !  " 

c  He  pointed  to  his  forehead,  and  then  laid  his 
wasted  fingers  on  his  hollow  chest.  Ernest  began  to 
cry  at  the  sight. 

i  "  How  is  it  that  M.  Derville  does  not  come  to  me  ?  " 
the  Count  asked  his  servant  (he  thought  that  Maurice 
was  really  attached  to  him,  but  the  man  was  entirely 


Gobseck 


363 


in  the  Countess's  interest) — "  What  !  Maurice  ! 99  and 
the  dying  man  suddenly  sat  upright  in  his  bed,  and 
seemed  to  recover  all  his  presence  of  mind,  "  I  have  sent 
for  my  attorney  seven  or  eight  times  during  the  last 
fortnight,  and  he  does  not  come  !  "  he  cried.  "  Do  you 
imagine  that  I  am  to  be  trifled  with  ?  Go  for  him,  at 
once,  this  very  instant,  and  bring  him  back  with  you. 
If  you  do  not  carry  out  my  orders,  I  shall  get  up  and  go 
myself." 

c  "  Madame,"  said  the  man  as  he  came  into  the  salon, 
"you  heard  M.  le  Comte  ;  what  ought  I  to  do  ?  " 

c  "  Pretend  to  go  to  the  attorney,  and  when  you  come 
back,  tell  your  master  that  his  man  of  business  is  forty 
leagues  away  from  Paris  on  an  important  lawsuit.  Say 
that  he  is  expected  back  at  the  end  of  the  week. — 
Sick  people  never  know  how  ill  they  are,"  thought  the 
Countess  ;  "  he  will  wait  till  the  man  comes  home." 

6  The  doctor  had  said  on  the  previous  evening  that 
the  Count  could  scarcely  live  through  the  day.  When 
the  servant  came  back  two  hours  later  to  give  that  hope- 
less answer,  the  dying  man  seemed  to  be  greatly 
agitated. 

CiiO  God  !  "  he  cried  again  and  again,  "  I  put  my  trust 
in  none  but  Thee." 

c  For  a  long  while  he  lay  and  gazed  at  his  son,  and 
spoke  in  a  feeble  voice  at  last. 

c  "  Ernest,  my  boy,  you  are  very  young  ;  but  you  have 
a  good  heart  ;  you  can  understand,  no  doubt,  that  a 
promise  given  to  a  dying  man  is  sacred  ;  a  promise  to  a 
father  .  .  .  Do  you  feel  that  you  can  be  trusted  with 
a  secret,  and  keep  it  so  well  and  closely  that  even  your 
mother  herself  shall  not  know  that  you  have  a  secret  to 
keep  ?  There  is  no  one  else  in  this  house  whom  I  can 
trust  to-day.    You  will  not  betray  my  trust,  will  you  ?  " 

'"No,  father." 

c  "  Very  well,  then,  Ernest,  in  a  minute  or  two  I  will 
give  you  a  sealed  packet  that  belongs  to  M.  Derville  ; 


364 


Gobseck 


you  must  take  such  care  of  it  that  no  one  can  know 
that  you  have  it  ;  then  you  must  slip  out  of  the  house 
and  put  the  letter  into  the  post-box  at  the  corner." 

<  "  Yes,  father." 

c  "  Can  I  depend  upon  you  ? n 

4 "Yes,  father." 

4 "Come  and  kiss  me.  You  have  made  death  less 
bitter  to  me,  dear  boy.  In  six  or  seven  years'  time  you 
will  understand  the  importance  of  this  secret,  and  you 
will  be  well  rewarded  then  for  your  quickness  and 
obedience,  you  will  know  then  how  much  I  love  you. 
Leave  me  alone  for  a  minute,  and  let  no  one — no  matter 
whom — come  in  meanwhile." 

c  Ernest  went  out  and  saw  his  mother  standing  in  the 
next  room. 

c  "  Ernest,"  said  she,  "come  here." 

4  She  sat  down,  drew  her  son  to  her  knees,  and  clasped 
him  in  her  arms,  and  held  him  tightly  to  her  heart. 

4  M  Ernest,  your  father  said  something  to  you  just  now." 

c  "  Yes,  mamma." 

'"What  did  he  say  ?" 

'"I  cannot  repeat  it,  mamma." 

c  "  Oh,  my  dear  child  !  "  cried  the  Countess,  kissing  him 
in  rapture.  "  You  have  kept  your  secret  ;  how  glad  that 
makes  me  !  Never  tell  a  lie  ;  never  fail  to  keep  your 
word — those  are  two  principles  which  should  never  be 
forgotten." 

'"Oh!  mamma,  how  beautiful  you  are!  You  have 
never  told  a  lie,  I  am  quite  sure." 

1  "  Once  or  twice,  Ernest  dear,  I  have  lied.  Yes,  and 
I  have  not  kept  my  word  under  circumstances  which 
speak  louder  than  all  precepts.  Listen,  my  Ernest,  you 
are  big  enough  and  intelligent  enough  to  see  that  your 
father  drives  me  away,  and  will  not  allow  me  to  nurse 
him,  and  this  is  not  natural,  for  you  know  how  much  I 
love  him." 

<w  Yes,  mamma." 


Gobseck 


365 


'  The  Countess  began  to  cry.  "  Poor  child  !  "  she  said, 
"  this  misfortune  is  the  result  of  treacherous  insinuations. 
Wicked  people  have  tried  to  separate  me  from  your 
father  to  satisfy  their  greed.  They  mean  to  take  all  our 
money  from  us  and  to  keep  it  for  themselves.  If  your 
father  were  well,  the  division  between  us  would  soon  be 
over  ;  he  would  listen  to  me  ;  he  is  loving  and  kind  ;  he 
would  see  his  mistake.  But  now  his  mind  is  affected, 
and  his  prejudices  against  me  have  become  a  fixed  idea, 
a  sort  of  mania  with  him.  It  is  one  result  of  his  illness. 
Your  father's  fondness  for  you  is  another  proof  that  his 
mind  is  deranged.  Until  he  fell  ill  you  never  noticed 
that  he  loved  you  more  than  Pauline  and  Georges.  It 
is  all  caprice  with  him  now.  In  his  affection  for  you  he 
might  take  it  into  his  head  to  tell  you  to  do  things  for 
him.  If  you  do  not  want  to  ruin  us  all,  my  darling,  and 
to  see  your  mother  begging  her  bread  like  a  pauper 
woman,  you  must  tell  her  everything  ' 

4  "Ah  !  "  cried  the  Count.  He  had  opened  the  door  and 
stood  there,  a  sudden,  half-naked  apparition,  almost  as 
thin  and  fleshless  as  a  skeleton. 

'His  smothered  cry  produced  a  terrible  effect  upon 
the  Countess  ;  she  sat  motionless,  as  if  a  sudden  stupor 
had  seized  her.  Her  husband  was  as  white  and  wasted 
as  if  he  had  risen  out  of  his  grave. 

c  "  You  have  filled  my  life  to  the  full  with  trouble,  and 
now  you  are  trying  to  vex  my  deathbed,  to  warp  my 
boy's  mind,  and  make  a  depraved  man  of  him  !  "  he  cried 
hoarsely. 

The  Countess  flung  herself  at  his  feet.  His  face, 
working  with  the  last  emotions  of  life,  was  almost 
hideous  to  see. 

4  "  Mercy  !  mercy  !  "  she  cried  aloud,  shedding  a  tor- 
rent of  tears. 

4 "Have  you  shown  me  any  pity?"  he  asked.  "I 
allowed  you  to  squander  your  own  money,  and  now  do 
you  mean  to  squander  my  fortune,  too,  and  ruin  my  son  ? ? 


366 


Gobseck 


c  "  Ah  !  well,  yes,  have  no  pity  for  me,  be  merciless  to 
me!"  she  cried.  "But  the  children?  Condemn  your 
widow  to  live  in  a  convent  ;  I  will  obey  you  ;  I  will  do 
anything,  anything  that  you  bid  me,  to  expiate  the 
wrong  I  have  done  you,  if  that  so  the  children  may  be 
happy  !    The  children  !    Oh,  the  children  !  " 

4  "  I  have  only  one  child,"  said  the  Count,  stretching 
out  a  wasted  arm,  in  his  despair,  towards  his  son. 

*  "  Pardon  a  penitent  woman,  a  penitent  woman  !  .  .  ." 
wailed  the  Countess,  her  arms  about  her  husband's  damp 
feet.  She  could  not  speak  for  sobbing  ;  vague,  incoherent 
sounds  broke  from  her  parched  throat. 

(  "  You  dare  to  talk  of  penitence  after  all  that  you  said 
to  Ernest  !  "  exclaimed  the  dying  man,  shaking  off  the 
Countess,  who  lay  grovelling  over  his  feet. — You  turn  me 
to  ice  !  "  he  added,  and  there  was  something  appalling  in 
the  indifference  with  which  he  uttered  the  words.  "  You 
have  been  a  bad  daughter  ;  you  have  been  a  bad  wife  ; 
you  will  be  a  bad  mother." 

c  The  wretched  woman  fainted  away.  The  dying  man 
reached  his  bed  and  lay  down  again,  and  a  few  hours 
later  sank  into  unconsciousness.  The  priests  came  and 
administered  the  sacraments. 

c  At  midnight  he  died  ;  the  scene  that  morning  had 
exhausted  his  remaining  strength,  and  on  the  stroke  of 
midnight  I  arrived  with  Daddy  Gobseck.  The  house 
was  in  confusion,  and  under  cover  of  it  we  walked  up 
into  the  little  salon  adjoining  the  death-chamber.  The 
three  children  were  there  in  tears,  with  two  priests,  who 
had  come  to  watch  with  the  dead.  Ernest  came  over  to 
me,  and  said  that  his  mother  desired  to  be  alone  in  the 
Count's  room. 

'  "  Do  not  go  in,"  he  said  ;  and  I  admired  the  child  for 
his  tone  and  gesture  ;  w  she  is  praying  there." 

*  Gobseck  began  to  laugh  that  soundless  laugh  of  his, 
but  I  felt  too  much  touched  by  the  feeling  in  Ernest's 
little  face  to  join  in  the  miser's  sardonic  amusement. 


Gobseck 


367 


When  Ernest  saw  that  we  moved  towards  the  door,  he 
planted  himself  in  front  of  it,  crying  out,  u  Mamma,  here 
are  some  gentlemen  in  black  who  want  to  see  you  !  " 

c  Gobseck  lifted  Ernest  out  of  the  way  as  if  the  child 
had  been  a  feather,  and  opened  the  door. 

4  What  a  scene  it  was  that  met  our  eyes  !  The  room 
was  in  frightful  disorder;  clothes  and  papers  and  rags 
lay  tossed  about  in  a  confusion  horrible  to  see  in  the 
presence  of  Death;  and  there,  in  the  midst,  stood  the 
Countess  in  dishevelled  despair,  unable  to  utter  a  word, 
her  eyes  glittering.  The  Count  had  scarcely  breathed 
his  last  before  his  wife  came  in  and  forced  open  the 
drawers  and  the  desk  ;  the  carpet  was  strewn  with  litter, 
some  of  the  furniture  and  boxes  were  broken,  the  signs 
of  violence  could  be  seen  everywhere.  But  if  her  search 
had  at  first  proved  fruitless,  there  was  that  in  her  excite- 
ment and  attitude  which  led  me  to  believe  that  she  had 
found  the  mysterious  documents  at  last.  I  glanced  at 
the  bed,  and  professional  instinct  told  me  all  that  had 
happened.  The  mattress  had  been  flung  contemptuously 
down  by  the  bedside,  and  across  it,  face  downwards,  lay 
the  body  of  the  Count,  like  one  of  the  paper  envelopes 
that  strewed  the  carpet — he  too  was  nothing  now  but  an 
envelope.  There  was  something  grotesquely  horrible  in 
the  attitude  of  the  stiffening  rigid  limbs. 

'The  dying  man  must  have  hidden  the  counter-deed 
under  his  pillow  to  keep  it  safe  so  long  as  life  should 
last  ;  and  his  wife  must  have  guessed  his  thought  ;  in- 
deed, it  might  be  read  plainly  in  his  last  dying  gesture, 
in  the  convulsive  clutch  of  his  claw-like  hands.  The 
pillow  had  been  flung  to  the  floor  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  ; 
I  could  see  the  print  of  her  heel  upon  it.  At  her  feet 
lay  a  paper  with  the  Count's  arms  on  the  seals  ;  I 
snatched  it  up,  and  saw  that  it  was  addressed  to  me.  I 
looked  steadily  at  the  Countess  with  the  pitiless  clear- 
sightedness of  an  examining  magistrate  confronting  a 
guilty  creature.    The  contents  were  blazing  in  the 


368 


Gobseck 


grate  ;  she  had  flung  them  on  the  fire  at  the  sound  of 
our  approach,  imagining,  from  a  first  hasty  glance  at  the 
provisions  which  I  had  suggested  for  her  children,  that 
she  was  destroying  a  will  which  disinherited  them.  A 
tormented  conscience  and  involuntary  horror  of  the  deed 
which  she  had  done  had  taken  away  all  power  of  reflec- 
tion. She  had  been  caught  in  the  act,  and  possibly  the 
scaffold  was  rising  before  her  eyes,  and  she  already  felt 
the  felon's  branding  iron. 

c  There  she  stood  gasping  for  breath,  waiting  for  us  to 
speak,  staring  at  us  with  haggard  eyes. 

c  I  went  across  to  the  grate  and  pulled  out  an  unburned 
fragment.  "  Ah,  madame  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  you  have 
ruined  your  children  !  Those  papers  were  their  titles  to 
their  property." 

i  Her  mouth  twitched,  she  looked  as  if  she  were 
threatened  by  a  paralytic  seizure. 

4  "  Eh  !  eh  !  "  cried  Gobseck  ;  the  harsh,  shrill  tone 
grated  upon  our  ears  like  the  sound  of  a  brass  candlestick 
scratching  a  marble  surface. 

i  There  was  a  pause,  then  the  old  man  turned  to  me 
and  said  quietly — 

c  "  Do  you  intend  Mme.  la  Comtesse  to  suppose  that 
I  am  not  the  rightful  owner  of  the  property  sold  to  me 
by  her  late  husband  ?    This  house  belongs  to  me  now." 

c  A  sudden  blow  on  the  head  from  a  bludgeon  would 
have  given  me  less  pain  and  astonishment.  The  Coun- 
tess saw  the  look  of  hesitation  in  my  face. 

6  "  Monsieur,"  she  cried,  "  Monsieur  !  "  She  could 
find  no  other  words. 

c  "  You  are  a  trustee,  are  you  not  ?  "  I  asked. 

c  "  That  is  possible." 

c  "  Then  do  you  mean  to  take  advantage  of  this  crime 
of  hers?" 

<"  Precisely." 

c  I  went  at  that,  leaving  the  Countess  sitting  by  her 
husband's  bedside,  shedding  hot  tears.  Gobseck  followed 


Gobseck 


369 


me.    Outside  in  the  street  I  separated  from  him,  but  he 
came  after  me,  flung  me  one  of  those  searching  glances 
with  which  he  probed  men's  minds,  and  said  in  the 
husky  flute-tones,  pitched  in  a  shriller  key — 
4  "  Do  you  take  it  upon  yourself  to  judge  me  ?  " 

c  From  that  time  forward  we  saw  little  of  each  other. 
Gobseck  let  the  Count's  mansion  on  lease  ;  he  spent  the 
summers  on  the  country  estates.  He  was  a  lord  of  the 
manor  in  earnest,  putting  up  farm  buildings,  repairing 
mills  and  roadways,  and  planting  timber.  I  came  across 
him  one  day  in  a  walk  in  the  Jardin  des  Tuileries. 

1  "The  Countess  is  behaving  like  a  heroine,"  said  I  ; 
"  she  gives  herself  up  entirely  to  the  children's  education  ; 
she  is  giving  them  a  perfect  bringing  up.  The  oldest 
boy  is  a  charming  young  fellow  " 

c  "  That  is  possible." 

c  "  But  ought  you  riot  to  help  Ernest  ?  "  I  suggested. 

i  "  Help  him  !  "  cried  Gobseck.  "  Not  I  !  Adversity 
is  the  greatest  of  all  teachers;  adversity  teaches  us  to 
know  the  value  of  money  and  the  worth  of  men  and 
women.  Let  him  set  sail  on  the  seas  of  Paris  ;  when  he 
is  a  qualified  pilot,  we  will  give  him  a  ship  to  steer." 

c  I  left  him  without  seeking  to  explain  the  meaning  of 
his  words. 

c  M.  de  Restaud's  mother  has  prejudiced  him  against 
me,  and  he  is  very  far  from  taking  me  as  his  legal 
adviser  ;  still,  I  went  to  see  Gobseck  last  week  to  tell 
him  about  Ernest's  love  for  Mlle.  Camille,  and  pressed 
him  to  carry  out  his  contract,  since  that  young  Restaud 
is  just  of  age. 

c 1  found  that  the  old  bill-discounter  had  been  kept  to 
his  bed  for  a  long  time  by  the  complaint  of  which  he 
was  to  die.  He  put  me  ofF,  saying  that  he  would  give 
the  matter  his  attention  when  he  could  get  up  again  and 
see  after  his  business  ;  his  idea  being  no  doubt  that  he 
would  not  give  up  any  of  his  possessions  so  long  as  the 

2  A 


37° 


Gobseck 


breath  was  in  him  ;  no  other  reason  could  be  found  for 
his  shuffling  answer.  He  seemed  to  me  to  be  much 
worse  than  he  at  all  suspected.  I  stayed  with  him  long 
enough  to  discern  the  progress  of  a  passion  which  age 
had  converted  into  a  sort  of  craze.  He  wanted  to  be 
alone  in  the  house,  and  had  taken  the  rooms  one  by  one 
as  they  fell  vacant.  In  his  own  room  he  had  changed 
nothing  ;  the  furniture  which  I  knew  so  well  sixteen 
years  ago  looked  the  same  as  ever;  it  might  have  been  kept 
under  a  glass  case.  Gobseck's  faithful  old  portress,  with 
her  husband,  a  pensioner,  who  sat  in  the  entry  while  she 
was  upstairs,  was  still  his  housekeeper  and  charwoman, 
and  now  in  addition  his  sick-nurse.  In  spite  of  his  feeble- 
ness, Gobseck  saw  his  clients  himself  as  heretofore,  and 
received  sums  of  money  ;  his  affairs  had  been  so  simplified, 
that  he  only  needed  to  send  his  pensioner  out  now  and 
again  on  an  errand,  and  could  carry  on  business  in  his  bed. 

c  After  the  treaty,  by  which  France  recognised  the 
Haytian  Republic,  Gobseck  was  one  of  the  members  of 
the  commission  appointed  to  liquidate  claims  and  assess 
repayments  due  by  Hayti  ;  his  special  knowledge  of  old 
fortunes  in  San  Domingo,  and  the  planters  and  their 
heirs  and  assigns  to  whom  the  indemnities  were  due,  had 
led  to  his  nomination.  Gobseck's  peculiar  genius  had 
then  devised  an  agency  for  discounting  the  planters' 
claims  on  the  government.  The  business  was  carried 
on  under  the  names  of  Werbrust  and  Gigonnet,  with 
whom  he  shared  the  spoil  without  disbursements,  for 
his  knowledge  was  accepted  instead  of  capital.  The 
agency  was  a  sort  of  distillery,  in  which  money 
was  extracted  from  doubtful  claims,  and  the  claims  of 
those  who  knew  no  better,  or  had  no  confidence  in  the 
government.  As  a  liquidator,  Gobseck  could  make 
terms  with  the  large  landed  proprietors;  and  these, 
either  to  gain  a  higher  percentage  of  their  claims,  or  to 
ensure  prompt  settlements,  would  send  him  presents  in 
proportion  to  their  means.    In  this  way  presents  came 


Gobseck 


37 1 


to  be  a  kind  of  percentage  upon  sums  too  large  to  pass 
through  his  control,  while  the  agency  bought  up  cheaply 
the  small  and  dubious  claims,  or  the  claims  of  those 
persons  who  preferred  a  little  ready  money  to  a  deferred 
and  somewhat  hazy  repayment  by  the  Republic.  Gob- 
seck was  the  insatiable  boa  constrictor  of  the  great 
business.  Every  morning  he  received  his  tribute,  eyeing 
it  like  a  Nabob's  prime  minister,  as  he  considers  whether 
he  will  sign  a  pardon.  Gobseck  would  take  anything, 
from  the  present  of  game  sent  him  by  some  poor  devil 
or  the  pound's  weight  of  wax  candles  from  devout  folk, 
to  the  rich  man's  plate  and  the  speculator's  gold  snuff- 
box. Nobody  knew  what  became  of  the  presents  sent 
to  the  old  money-lender.  Everything  went  in,  but 
nothing  came  out. 

4  "  On  the  word  of  an  honest  woman,"  said  the  por- 
tress, an  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  a  I  believe  he 
swallows  it  all  and  is  none  the  fatter  for  it  ;  he  is  as 
thin  and  dried  up  as  the  cuckoo  in  the  clock." 

c  At  length,  last  Monday,  Gobseck  sent  his  pensioner 
for  me.    The  man  came  up  to  my  private  office. 

'"Be  quick  and  come,  M.  Derville,"  said  he,  u  the 
governor  is  just  going  to  hand  in  his  checks;  he  has 
grown  as  yellow  as  a  lemon  ;  he  is  fidgeting  to  speak 
with  you  ;  death  has  fair  hold  of  him  ;  the  rattle  is  work- 
ing in  his  throat." 

6  When  I  entered  Gobseck's  room,  I  found  the  dying 
man  kneeling  before  the  grate.  If  there  was  no  fire  on 
the  hearth,  there  was  at  any  rate  a  monstrous  heap  of 
ashes.  He  had  dragged  himself  out  of  bed,  but  his 
strength  had  failed  him,  and  he  could  neither  go  back 
nor  find  voice  to  complain. 

'  "  You  felt  cold,  old  friend,"  I  said,  as  I  helped  him 
back  to  his  bed  ;  "  how  can  you  do  without  a  fire  ?  " 

cwIam  not  cold  at  all,"  he  said.  "  No  fire  here  !  no 
fire  !  I  am  going,  I  know  not  where,  lad,"  he  went 
on,  glancing  at  me  with  blank,  lightless  eyes,  "but  I 


37* 


Gobseck 


am  going  away  from  this. — I  have  carpology"  said  he 
(the  use  of  the  technical  term  showing  how  clear  and 
accurate  his  mental  processes  were  even  now).  "I 
thought  the  room  was  full  of  live  gold,  and  I  got  up  to 
catch  some  of  it. — To  whom  will  all  mine  go,  I  won- 
der ?  Not  to  the  Crown  ;  I  have  left  a  will,  look  for  it, 
Grotius.  La  belle  Hollandaise  had  a  daughter  ;  I  once 
saw  the  girl  somewhere  or  other,  in  the  Rue  Vivienne, 
one  evening.  They  call  her  cLa  Torpille^  I  believe  ; 
she  is  as  pretty  as  pretty  can  be  ;  look  her  up,  Grotius. 
You  are  my  executor  ;  take  what  you  like  $  help  your- 
self. There  are  Strasburg  pies,  there,  and  bags  of  coffee, 
and  sugar,  and  gold  spoons.  Give  the  Odiot  service  to 
your  wife.  But  who  is  to  have  the  diamonds  ?  Are  you 
going  to  take  them,  lad  ?  There  is  snuff  too — sell  it  at 
Hamburg,  tobaccos  are  worth  half  as  much  again  at 
Hamburg.  All  sorts  of  things  I  have  in  fact,  and  now  I 
must  go  and  leave  them  all. — Come,  Papa  Gobseck,  no 
weakness,  be  yourself  !  " 

c  He  raised  himself  in  bed,  the  lines  of  his  face  standing 
out  as  sharply  against  the  pillow  as  if  the  profile  had  been 
cast  in  bronze  $  he  stretched  out  a  lean  arm  and  bony 
hand  along  the  coverlet  and  clutched  it,  as  if  so  he 
would  fain  keep  his  hold  on  life,  then  he  gazed  hard  at 
the  grate,  cold  as  his  own  metallic  eyes,  and  died  in  full 
consciousness  of  death.  To  us — the  portress,  the  old 
pensioner,  and  myself — he  looked  like  one  of  the  old 
Romans  standing  behind  the  Consuls  in  Lethière's  picture 
of  the  Death  of  the  Sons  of  Brutus. 

c  "  He  was  a  good-plucked  one,  the  old  Lascar  !  "  said 
the  pensioner  in  his  soldierly  fashion. 

c  But  as  for  me,  the  dying  man's  fantastical  enumera- 
tion of  his  riches  was  still  sounding  in  my  ears,  and  my 
eyes,  following  the  direction  of  his,  rested  on  that  heap 
of  ashes.  It  struck  me  that  it  was  very  large.  I  took 
the  tongs,  and  as  soon  as  I  stirred  the  cinders,  I  felt  the 
metal  underneath,  a  mass  of  gold  and  silver  coins,  receipts 


Gobseck 


373 


taken  during  his  illness,  doubtless,  after  he  grew  too 
feeble  to  lock  the  money  up,  and  could  trust  no  one  to 
take  it  to  the  bank  for  him. 

c  "  Run  for  the  justice  of  the  peace,"  said  I,  turning 
to  the  old  pensioner,  c<  so  that  everything  can  be  sealed 
here  at  once." 

c  Gobseck's  last  words  and  the  old  portress's  remarks 
had  struck  me.  I  took  the  keys  of  the  rooms  on  the  first 
and  second  floor  to  make  a  visitation.  The  first  door 
that  I  opened  revealed  the  meaning  of  the  phrases  which 
I  took  for  mad  ravings  ;  and  I  saw  the  length  to  which 
covetousness  goes  when  it  survives  only  as  an  illogical 
instinct,  the  last  stage  of  greed  of  which  you  find  so 
many  examples  among  misers  in  country  towns. 

c  In  the  room  next  to  the  one  in  which  Gobseck  had 
died,  a  quantity  of  eatables  of  all  kinds  were  stored — 
putrid  pies,  mouldy  fish,  nay,  even  shell-fish,  the  stench 
almost  choked  me.  Maggots  and  insects  swarmed. 
These  comparatively  recent  presents  were  put  down, 
pell-mell,  among  chests  of  tea,  bags  of  coffee,  and  pack- 
ing-cases of  every  shape.  A  silver  soup  tureen  on  the 
chimney-piece  was  full  of  advices  of  the  arrival  of  goods 
consigned  to  his  order  at  Havre,  bales  of  cotton,  hogs- 
heads of  sugar,  barrels  of  rum,  coffees,  indigo,  tobaccos, 
a  perfect  bazaar  of  colonial  produce.  The  room  itself 
was  crammed  with  furniture,  and  silver-plate,  and  lamps, 
and  vases,  and  pictures  ;  there  were  books,  and  curiosities, 
and  fine  engravings  lying  rolled  up,  unframed.  Perhaps 
these  were  not  all  presents,  and  some  part  of  this  vast 
quantity  of  stuff*  had  been  deposited  with  him  in  the 
shape  of  pledges,  and  had  been  left  on  his  hands  in 
default  of  payment.  I  noticed  jewel-cases,  with  ciphers 
and  armorial-bearings  stamped  upon  them,  and  sets  of  fine 
table-linen,  and  weapons  of  price  ;  but  none  of  the  things 
were  docketed.  I  opened  a  book  which  seemed  to  be  mis- 
placed, and  found  a  thousand-franc  note  in  it.  I  promised 
myself  that  I  would  go  through  everything  thoroughly  $ 


374 


Gobseck 


I  would  try  the  ceilings,  and  floors,  and  walls,  and 
cornices  to  discover  all  the  gold,  hoarded  with  such 
passionate  greed  by  a  Dutch  miser  worthy  of  a  Rem- 
brandt's brush.  In  all  the  course  of  my  professional 
career  I  have  never  seen  such  impressive  signs  of  the 
eccentricity  of  avarice. 

c  I  went  back  to  his  room,  and  found  an  explanation  of 
this  chaos  and  accumulation  of  riches  in  a  pile  of  letters 
lying  under  the  paper-weights  on  his  desk — Gobseck's 
correspondence  with  the  varioiss  dealers  to  whom  doubt- 
less he  usually  sold  his  presents.  These  persons  had, 
perhaps,  fallen  victims  to  Gobseck's  cleverness,  or  Gob- 
seck may  have  wanted  fancy  prices  for  his  goods  ;  at  any 
rate,  every  bargain  hung  in  suspense.  He  had  not 
disposed  of  the  eatables  to  Chevet,  because  Chevet 
would  only  take  them  of  him  at  a  loss  of  thirty  per  cent. 
Gobseck  haggled  for  a  few  francs  between  the  prices, 
and  while  they  wrangled  the  goods  became  unsaleable. 
Again,  Gobseck  had  refused  free  delivery  of  his  silver- 
plate,  and  declined  to  guarantee  the  weights  of  his 
coffees.  There  had  been  a  dispute  over  each  article, 
the  first  indication  in  Gobseck  of  the  childishness  and 
incomprehensible  obstinacy  of  age,  a  condition  of  mind 
reached  at  last  by  all  men  in  whom  a  strong  passion 
survives  the  intellect. 

c  I  said  to  myself,  as  he  had  said,  "  To  whom  will 
all  these  riches  go  ?  "  .  .  .  And  when  I  think  of  the 
grotesque  information  he  gave  me  as  to  the  present 
address  of  his  heiress,  I  foresee  that  it  will  be  my  duty 
to  search  all  the  houses  of  ill-fame  in  Paris  to  pour  out 
an  immense  fortune  on  some  worthless  jade.  But,  in  the 
first  place,  know  this — that  in  a  few  days'  time  Ernest 
de  Restaud  will  come  into  a  fortune  to  which  his  title 
is  unquestionable,  a  fortune  which  will  put  him  in  a 
position  to  marry  Mlle.  Camille,  even  after  adequate 
provision  has  been  made  for  his  mother  the  Comtesse  de 
Restaud,  and  his  sister  and  brother.' 


Gobseck 


375 


4  Well,  dear  M.  Derville,  we  will  think  about  it,'  said 
Mme.  de  Grandlieu.  c  M.  Ernest  ought  to  be  very 
wealthy  indeed  if  such  a  family  as  ours  must  accept  that 
mother  of  his.  Bear  in  mind  that  my  son  will  be  the 
Duc  de  Grandlieu  one  day  ;  he  will  unite  the  estates  of 
both  the  houses  that  bear  our  name,  and  I  wish  him  to 
have  a  brother-in-law  to  his  mind.' 

i  But  Restaud  bears  gules,  a  traverse  argent,  on  four 
scutcheons  or,  a  cross  sable,  and  that  is  a  very  pretty 
coat  of  arms.' 

c  That  is  true/  said  the  Vicomtesse  ;  c  and  besides, 
Camille  need  not  see  her  mother-in-law.' 

c  Mme.  de  Beauséant  used  to  receive  Mme.  de  Restaud/ 
said  the  grey-haired  uncle. 

c  Oh  !  that  was  at  her  great  crushes/  replied  the 
Vicomtesse. 

Parts,  January  1830. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty, 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


